


Last Hope

by AelinSardothian



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alternate Unvierse, Dystopia/Advanced Society, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Human Trafficking, Major Character Injury, Mental Anguish, Psychological Torture, Sexual Content, Shooting, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-05-03 08:38:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 114,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5284076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AelinSardothian/pseuds/AelinSardothian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clary's been forced into submission. Not knowing who she is or where she belongs she has no choice but to be the Escort she's been trained to be and serve her new patron; the prince of Idris. After a traumatic event that sets in motion the realization of who she is, Clary is forced to choose between the servitude that has been ingrained in her or to face the challenge of herself.<br/> Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare retains all rights to The Mortal Instruments and everything it associates with.  The original plot is mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sale of a Soul

          Clary curls against the cold metal wall, hugging her knees to her chest as the chill seeps into her skin.  She can’t see anything in the dark and she’s alone, the other girls already sold off to wanting patrons not ten minutes ago.  At eighteen, Clary’s been living in the Night’s House since she was kidnapped off the streets at twelve.  Sadly, in this dilapidated world, slave markets of any kind are legal; the only rule, you have to catch your slaves yourself.  With the world being run by royalty in every country who have their heads so far up their asses they haven’t seen the light of day since they were born, this human slave market has come to a bursting, Night’s House being the most sought out Escort service in the world.   Before she was kidnapped she had jumped from foster home to foster home for a bit before running away, unable to cope with the cruel fosterers, not knowing who she was or where she was going, barely scraping by from day to day.

            No one had ever noticed the small red head, darting around, working illegal jobs to get enough money for dinner that night, sometimes going without.  She wished it had stayed that way, at eighteen then, she could have gotten a good job with decent pay, made a life for herself but Valentine had to catch sight of her darting around the New York streets.  He’d sent men after her.  She’d thought they were the police; she thought she’d done something wrong and she’d given chase.

            She’d bolted through back alleys too small for anyone bigger than her petite frame, through dark streets and up onto the well-known roof tops.  After twenty minutes of running and evading she thought she’d lost them but they’d risen out of the darkness, grabbing hold of her, binding her wrists and blindfolding her.

            She hadn’t known the fate she was in for back then, still doesn’t, but now she has an idea of what is in store and she would have preferred risking it on the streets.  But the Fates had to be cruel and let Valentine find her.  He’s been nothing but ‘kind’ to her the past six years, being his prize virgin, but there was always the looming day of when she’s sold, when she is no longer a virgin.  She’s known she was always property, worth nothing, not even her parents had wanted her.

            Valentine had given her the best room in the Night’s House organization’s many pleasure houses.  She’d lived on the top floor, with a window view of a brightly lit New York but she was always a prisoner.  Valentine had had her trained in any and all arts of pleasure, boasting that she had so much potential.  He’d made sure to keep her virginity intact, saying that a virgin was worth more, but he’s taught her all the things one can know in bed.

            Sadly, Valentine has been the closest thing to a father she’s ever known.  He was always there when she had questions or was nervous or scared.  He’s always soothed her and convinced her that she was safe but she knows she’s not.  With Night’s House being the biggest Escort Company in the world, with the best trained girls and satisfaction rates, she’s worth at least seven point two million dollars.  Virgins are always worth more.  She’s known this day would come since she was brought to Valentine’s office six years ago and she’s dreading when that door finally opens and she’s presented to the world’s most prestigious leaders and richest men.

            She’s terrified but she’s been trained not to show it, been trained to please and not burden the patron with her own emotions or conflicts.  As a result, all her terror is bouncing around under her cool, calm mask.  She doesn’t understand why _she’s_ Valentine’s prized virgin, he’s had so many more beautiful, tall, willowy girls with flowing dark hair and blazing eyes but no, it’s her, with her crimson hair and spray of freckles, her short, petite frame.

            Her old friend Isabelle, only a year older than her, was one of the best Escorts she knew with pitch black hair flowing down a toned beautiful back and dark chocolate brown eyes.  She’d been a wonderfully sweet girl to Clary and had been her best friend, but had been sold to the Portuguese prince last month and Clary was left alone.  She knows that Night’s House supplies male Escorts also but she’s only ever met a few, one being Isabelle’s brother, who was just as stunning as his sister except with spectacular blue eyes.  He’d been as nice to her as Isabelle, and had been sold two years previous to the Portuguese princess. It is rare to have sibling Escorts sold into the same country, let alone the same Royal house.

            That leaves Clary alone, about to be sold to one of the most prominent rulers and leaders of the world, and trembling on the inside.  The door opens, letting the soft light flood in from the hallway.  Clary rises gracefully to her feet, crossing the room to Valentine standing in the doorway.  He’s beaming at her, probably seeing a walking pile of cash when he looks at her but she also sees the admiration he holds for her.  He has, after all, raised her like his own daughter.

            “Are you ready?” he asks in a light, cheerful voice.  Clary’s stomach twists as she slides out into the hall.

            “Yes, sir,” she says, flashing Valentine a bright smile that he returns and places a hand at the small of her back, guiding her to the hotel ballroom where the auction is being held.  She holds her head high, striding beside Valentine, determined not to start trembling.  He guides her through the back hallways to the back stage of the ballroom for her to stand, waiting to be revealed to the lustful men sitting primed and combed at the satin covered tables with their number cards and regal gaits.

            She despises these kinds of men, buying women and men barely out of childhood for sex slaves.  She knows some of the sold Escorts are taken as wives or husbands and become prince or princess consorts, all eligible because Valentine makes sure his Escorts are of noble birth, somehow getting long descended royalty or cousins of the Heirs to thrones—it’s almost unheard of if an Heir was captured and sold into Escort market—but she’s just a street rat from New York.  The fact that she’s no one doesn’t disgust her with these people any less.

It’s not illegal, taking Heirs; everyone is fair game but the direct royal families have so much security surrounding their children until they’re eighteen that it’s nearly impossible for an Heir to be an Escort, only until eighteen because that is the age limit it’s legal to be captured and forced into slavery.  She doesn’t know specifics but Night’s House is expensive for a reason, they’ve always got eyes on even distantly related royals.  What she doesn’t understand is why she’s the best; she’s an orphan who was living on the streets of New York, without a single drop of noble or even refined blood in her, she doesn’t even know what kind of blood she has.

            But she isn’t allowed to show her disdain, only allowed to pleasure her patron and hope that he’ll—hopefully a he though there are those rare cases when the patron is of the same sex which she would have to tolerate—be at least decent to her, not abusing.  She strides along the corridor, Valentine guiding her until they reach the back of a thick, dark red curtain.  On the other side she can hear the soft chatter of the patrons come to take a chance to buy the prized virgin six years in the making.

            “Alright Clare,” Valentine says, using the nick name he gave her six year ago.  “You know how to present yourself, this is the biggest bid yet.  Don’t fail me.”  He kisses her forehead and disappears to announce her and start the bidding.  She glares after him, inwardly of course, a warm, inviting smile still plastered on her face, cursing him for kidnapping her, raising her and not even saying goodbye just, _Don’t fail me._ She knows she won’t of course, she’s completely confident that she’ll bring in at least the 7.2 she’s worth but he could at least have told her goodbye.

            She takes a deep breath, hearing Valentine’s voice going over the lengths and measures taken to train her.  She closes her eyes, her warm smile still in place, so this is it, this is what her life has come to.  She would have preferred the streets to being a sex slave, no matter how high ranked the man.  The higher they are, the more corrupt they are.  She hears the curtain sliding back and she opens her green eyes, checking her silky black bra and panty set, then making sure her smile is still in place.

            There they are, all her possible patrons sitting proud and regal at their tables, security lining the walls of the ballroom of the top floor, lining the floor to ceiling windows looking out on the roof top gardens and the soft blues of the curtains and table clothes glowing warmly around them.  She searches the sea of faces, all men, all adorned in suits and tuxedoes.  She sees royalty from all over Europe, Britain, Asia, Africa and South America, wealthy businessmen from major corporations all over the world. There are flashes of pitch black hair both belonging to Indian nobility, Asian royalty and the lovely contrast to the white men.  Blond hair from the northern countries along with the pale skin.  Dark tanned skin from the Equator countries, chocolate brown skin of the southern.   She sees tall, lean, well-muscled men with arrogant smirks and lustfully blazing eyes; fat squat men with rounded bellies and wanton faces.

            She tries not to show disgust at the obese, pampered pricks scattered about the room or her disdain for the pompous, over confident assholes who’ve had everything handed to them on a gold plated spoon inlaid with rubies while she was wandering the streets scrounging for food as they asked for another pony for their birthday.  She realizes the price of the bid has already escalated to three million dollars.  Valentine must be so proud.

            Now paying attention to the men raising their number cards, she tries not to sneer at the people who have bid on her, anxiety closing her throat in hopes of not being bought by some overweight pig, at least she can get some pleasure for herself if the arrogant pricks who buys her has a lean muscled, powerful body.  Not that she’ll have any choice in the matter but a girl can hope.

            Her eyes flick back and forth between the men, from the well versed Portuguese royalty to the Spanish.  They land on a plump Indian man and her stomach curls at the sight of him shoving chicken into his mouth as he raises his card.  Another man, this one tale and pale and dark haired, feeble really, out of place but still good looking, raises his card.  The Portuguese prince who bought Isabelle raises his own and a surge of hope goes through her chest, maybe she’ll be able to see Isabelle and Alec again.

            Her eyes skip over the next bidder, to a handsome, nicely tanned man with blue eyes like Caribbean seawater and hair as golden as sand, she can tell under his suit, primped and emblazoned with the seal of Greece, is well defined.  It’s a bit peculiar to have a blond Greek but they’re supposed to be phenomenal in bed.  No matter how arrogant he is, she wouldn’t mind going home with him.

            She doesn’t see the man who cast the final bid at 11.7 million dollars, too distracted with imagining what a blond Greek would be like in bed.  If he would be abusive or kind, keep her a prisoner or eventually marry her but the auction is over now.  She was the last girl to be sold.  Valentine comes over and takes her back to the room where the other sold girls are.  She doesn’t know any of them but they all chat with each other excitedly or disappointedly about who they were bought by.

            One girl boasts she was bought by the Roman prince.  Clary vaguely remembers seeing him; tall, black haired, blue eyed, lean and muscled.  Yes, the girl has a right to be boasting but Clary had seen what most girls do not, cruelty and malice in the Roman’s blue eyes.  Clary feels sorry for the girl, despite her being three years her senior.  Though Night’s House is an Escort market, it does not sell underage girls; that is one of the reasons it’s so prestigious, it plays by _some_ human morals.

            Valentine hands her an envelope, containing Clary’s certified health records, proof of her virginity, medical history, blah, blah, blah.  Attendants rush around, outfitting the mostly naked girls with clothes so when they leave her they do not look like Escorts but companions fit for royalty not that anyone would help them or report it to the police, Escorts being legal.  All their luggage was brought from whatever branch of Night’s House they were staying in so they could leave the auction with their patron.  A male attendant, maybe thirty helps her put on a designer dress, purely snow white to make her hair seem like a flame.  A black belt has been wrapped loosely around the waist.  The fabric is thick enough so her black underwear does not show through and the man hands her a pair of white buckle up boots which she pulls on easily.

            Valentine has her make re-done to a darker blue eye shadow and a light pink pout.  He stands behind her, gripping her shoulders like a proud father, looking at her in the mirror.  “You’ve made me so proud Clare.  You’re going to be in good hands, I made sure made of that.  I wouldn’t want my little girl going to someone who wouldn’t know how to use her.”

            Clary smiles up at him even as disgust tightens in her stomach.  She’s a person, not some sex toy to be used but she had that choice stolen from her when she was twelve.  Valentine leaves her to direct the rest of his girls to the lobby, the whole of the hotel having been bought out days ago for this event.  All of them carry designer suit cases, full of their brilliant flashy wardrobe they’ve acquired over their years of training but Clary only has a small duffel bag.  She’s asked for only dorm shirts and jeans and Valentine has allowed her that, so her small bag is stuffed with t-shirts and jeans, lacy lingerie of course.  Valentine wouldn’t allow her to have cotton underwear, saying that she should be accustomed to thongs and silks if she was to be an Escort, especially one to royalty.

            She follows the flow of girls dutifully out of the dressing room, down to the large, mirrored elevators.  She stands in the back, not wanting to talk to girls who wanted and liked being sold like dolls.  At least Izzy fought at her auction but had eventually been forced into the servitude of the Portuguese prince.  She hopes she and Alec are okay.  The elevator doors open with a harmonic ding, letting the milling nobility see their newly bought property.

            Clary clutches her envelope inside of her white trench coat, the belt tied securely around her waist, waiting for the girls to file out, separated by the guards of both Night’s House and nobility and rich billionaires.  The elevator empties, leaving Clary staring at herself in the mirror wall.

            Yep, she looks just like the glorified prostitute she is, do away with _Escort._   What bullshit.  She never wanted this for herself, she never wanted this life.  If only things had turned out differently, her parents keeping her maybe but she wouldn’t want to live with people who would give up their child anyway.  Valentine is holding the elevator door and he pops his head in.

            He smiles kindly at her.  “Are you coming Clare?”

            Clary smiles back warmly, despite the fiery hatred burning in her chest.  “Of course.”  She hikes up her duffel on her shoulder and exits the elevator into the milling crowd of slave buyers.  Valentine himself places a hand on her shoulder, leading her over to her patron.  She’s expecting some bulbous bellied jackass or some steroid blooded prick but is only met with a group of six body guards, their suits unadorned and faces blank.

            Clary looks at them each in turn, offering a warm smile that they do not return.  Valentine urges her forward.  “This is Clarissa, the Escort your patron bought,” Valentine says.

            “We are aware,” says a tall, barrel chested man with a dusting of blond hair on his head.  “He’s already left for the airfield for his safety.  We’ve been instructed to escort Ms. Clarissa to him.”

            “Good.  Well, Clarissa has all her paperwork and records.  I hope she is as good an Escort as I trained her to be,” Valentine says, squeezing her shoulder and handing her off the guards like some piece of paper.

            “Your money will be wire transferred in a month if Clarissa is to his satisfaction.  If not he will send her back to you for disciplining and retrieve her after you’ve assured us that she will behave.”

            Valentine nods and disappears back into the crowd to attend to his other acquisitions.  One of the men in black places a hand over the small of her back, guiding her to the front doors.  At the big, glass double doors one of them opens a large black umbrella to protect against the down pour outside.  They guide her out into the limo laden parking lot, opening the back door of a hummer limo.  They take her duffel from her, the guard disappearing to the other side of the limo.  She steps up into the back of the plush hummer.  They shut the door after her and she drops the smile and rigid posture, slumping against the padded leather seat.  There is a divider between her and the front half of the limo, probably another between the driver and the rest and she’s thankful, she’s alone.

            She can’t cry yet though, she’s being carted to this mystery patron’s private jet where she will have to spend who knows how long in the close confines with him, with the possibility of him wanting to use her first thing, not having the patience to wait until he gets home.  She leans her head against the tinted, rain drenched window, listening the engine start, the mutter of the guards up front and the rain pattering against the roof.

            It’s official now, she’s a bought slave, bound for the bedroom and a life of servitude.  She can only hope her patron is not abusive, that she’ll at least have a docile life instead of being forced into bed and beaten the rest of the time.  She rubs her fingers against her right temple, stressing over who she was bought by.  She should have paid more attention to who was buying her.  Oh god, what if it’s one of those bulging bastards?  She really doesn’t want to have to share a bed with some fat man who can’t even see his own manhood!  The thought is revolting.  Or what if he’s old?  A wrinkly sack of bones?  Maybe she’ll misbehave just to get sent back to Valentine.

            The worst, though, would be one of the arrogant, over confident princes who think so highly of themselves it makes her want to vomit.  They’ve had everything they could ever want and more, a whole county at their disposal, ignoring the poor and helpless of their own country and spending the riches that could help those in need on gold plated toilet seats, while she was being trained for a sex slave.  Her life on the streets wasn’t the best or the most honest but at least she had worked for her own instead of having it handed to her on a gilded plate imported from Spain.

            They travel through New York traffic slowly and Clary isn’t surprised that her patron left early to get to his air field.  Her breath makes the glass fog up and she draws little pictures on the glass.  A longing for her sketchbook builds in her chest.  She used to love drawing, until Valentine forbade it to make her focus on her sex studies.  She was good too, Valentine had framed and hung some of her sketches in his office after he confiscated it.

            She scratches the inside of her left wrist, where she had a chip implanted yesterday, the remote to which sits in the envelope in her coat.  The chip is meant to be a monitor of sorts for her, so the patron can know where she is at any given time, her vitals.  But the chip is also meant to administer a shock to her every time she disobeys her patron or steps out of line.  The shock control is an option on the chip’s remote, for the patron to use but it is programmed into the chip to go off automatically when she disobeys.  It’s meant to be in her arm for only the first two months, to ensure the Escort becomes adjusted and used to obeying her patron.  After that it dissolves and the remote shuts down.

            The buildings of multi-million dollar corporations rise before her, curling disgust in her chest.  They’ve destroyed this world, polluting it until it’s turned to nothing but machinery and smoke hidden under the sleek surfaces of modern buildings.  It’s slow going, the sky taxis overhead whizzing by in their own level of street but the fleets of residential and business cars still pack the narrow streets.  She watches the brightly lit billboards gleam through the gloomy gray clouded sky.

            Eventually, they break through thick down town traffic for the highway, freshly, unnecessarily, paved over.  The multi levels of traffic are fast and rapid, the din of horns and shouts heard even through the obviously armored hummer.  Clary watches the rain pool in the rims of the windows, hoping her life ahead of her won’t be too miserable.  She closes her eyes, leaning back against the cushioned head rest, waiting to be presented like the best in show dog to her buyer.

            One of the guards gently shakes her awake sometime later, the rain still relentless in its falling, casting the only possible way Clary can portray her outward emotion.  Her despair at being captured and sold into slavery.  She smiles kindly at the guard who remains as emotionless as ever as he helps her out of the back of the hummer, holding an umbrella over her perfect hair.

            The guards hand back her duffel and she can tell that they’ve gone through it.  She doesn’t really feel embarrassed, she is after all a bought sex slave.  What worse embarrassment is there?  They lead her across the perfect black pavement of the private airfield.  The envelope in her coat feels cold and heavy inside her trench coat as she mounts the steps into the private jet.     

            The guards follow her in and close the stairs behind them, closing the umbrella and pushing her forward into the luxury compartment.  A white couch sits on one side with blankets and pillows but there is no family crest, no logo depicting it to be royalty or business.  Two plush seats face each other with a small table between.  All the windows are shut, the interior lit by soft yellow lights embedded in the walls.  A small kitchenette sits in the back corner, glowing with pale blue light.  Nothing is over adorned or plated in gold as Clary suspected but that does not mean her patron isn’t a self-absorbed money bather.

            She realizes that the compartment is empty, the door at the back shut.  This can’t be the whole plane, there must be more, a bedroom perhaps, in the back.  Well, she supposes her patron is an impatient one.  The guard pushes her forward gently, gesturing for her to sit down anywhere.  She continues standing, looking back to the guard, a question in her eyes.  She was trained not to speak unless spoken to.

            “He was tired and is resting in the back room.  You are welcome to any of the food or drink but you are not allowed in the back compartment unless he expressly tells you so.  Understood?”

            Clary flashes a sweet smile.  “Yes sir,” she says kindly, still standing in the middle of the jet, not wanting to touch any of the jet that is dripping in wealth.  The guard nods and disappears into the front compartment and cockpit.  Her smile drops away immediately but she continues to stand rigid and uncomfortable.  She hates how rich people flaunt their wealth, able to spend eleven million dollars on a prostitute and not use that money to help the people who actually need it.

            In this world there are only two social classes, the very rich and wealthy and royal and the commoners who live in squalor one way or another.  There is no in between.  There are miles and miles of rich laden mansions and gardens and corporate buildings, but even larger outskirts that are of mild houses that are barely comfortable in their wealth and those that lie in shacks then those on the streets.  She has been forced to rise from the very bottom to almost the top.  A street urchin to a glorified slut.

            Clary scrunches her nose at the thought, much rather preferring a street urchin than someone who is forced to sell their body, as she places her duffel quietly on the carpeted floor beside the couch.  Her high heeled boots give her about three inches on her small, short body but she is still short enough to be far from being able to reach the ceiling.  She purses her lips as she looks at the locked door, presumably so, and she feels her stomach clench in fear, the first true wave of fear she’s had since she was taken.  And it is not a pleasant feeling.  She does not want to just hand over her body, her virginity to some stranger that she does not even know what he looks like but she’s been trained to do so, she’s obligated and there will be consequences if she does not do as she’s told.

            She’s not hungry, nor is she tired, and she definitely does not want to sit down but she feels the almost silent jet engines start.  She takes a seat on the couch before she can be thrown back ungracefully when the plane takes off.  She does not even know where they are going, where she’s being taken.  It’s in the envelope, both her papers and the information sheet on who has bought her.  She could open it and see just who has bought her virginity for 6.3 million dollars… but she is forbidden.  She is to give the envelope to her patron upon seeing him, unopened.

            She folds her hands in her lap to keep from clenching them as she feels the jet lurch forward.  She grasps the seat suddenly, feeling the jet pull up into the air, her heart beating rapidly.  She does not let go until she feels the pull of gravity relinquish and her ears pop.  Well that’s new, she hates flying.  Her heart beat slows as the plane steadies.  She stands, looking around the compartment, unsure of what to do.  She hasn’t had her sketchbook in ages and desperately wants it now, for something to do.  She has a book in her duffel but she doesn’t feel like reading, she doesn’t feel like she’ll be able to concentrate when she’s 30,000 feet in the air.

            She decides to take off her trench coat, undoing the belt and the buttons and slinking it off her shoulders, laying it out on the back of one of the seats.  She moves over to one of the windows, clutching her elbows as she lifts the shutter.  What she sees is a sea of crystal and light, the familiar mass of New York streets that she wandered for years, scrounging up food just to live another day.  The only city she’s ever known, the only life she’s ever known.  Growing up in headquarters of the most high tech, prestigious Escort service in the world was not how she imagined growing up.

            The city below her seems endless, a roiling mass of electricity and hidden cruelty.  She closes the shutter suddenly, hatred rising in her chest and she cannot lose her calm anymore, not when she has to please her patron, not dump her traumatic childhood on them.  She moves back over to the couch, settling down on the surprisingly comfortable cushions.  She pulls her book out of her duffel bag, leafing through to the last page she was on… two years ago.

            She blows a lock of red hair out of her face as she leans over the book, she may as well start over again, most likely having forgotten everything about Sydney Carton.  She pours herself into the book, completely blocking out jet and her life at the moment until she’s half way through the book and three hours have passed.  She doesn’t dare look out the window again, afraid of what she’ll find.  She quietly shuts the book, marking her page with the black silk ribbon she had on hand at the time, her training that day being bondage.

            She crinkles her nose at the memory, slipping the book back into her bag.  She unbuckles her boots, sliding them off her feet and keeping her pantyhose on.  She so desperately wants to take the constricting garment off but she knows she shouldn’t.  She pads over to the seat where blankets are piled and draws an exceptionally fluffy and warm one from the seat.

            She wraps it around her shoulders and slips back over to the couch, laying down on her back and staring up at the ceiling.  It’s a very unremarkable ceiling, very white, very plain, very non-wealth code.  She curls her toes under the blanket, flipping it over her to cover her entire body.  She pulls one of the pillows down under her head, stretching her body out along the couch.  She’s very stiff, unrested despite how her makeup makes her appear, though she is trained to have a tolerance of a few days without sleep.

            She can’t even think about her life now, doesn’t really want to, there’s not really anything to think about.  Her parents abandoned her, she was found on the doorstep some old _abandoned_ building, she was thrown into the shitty low social class foster system, she ran away and lived on the streets for three years until she was kidnapped by Night’s House and raised to be Valentine’s best, most expensive virgin.  That’s it, that’s her life and it’s pitiful.

            She closes her eyes, turning to face the back of the couch and going to sleep, hoping that her life will be at least decent for the rest of it.  She wakes up when the P.A. system tells the plane’s occupants that they will be landing in a half hour.  She sits up slowly, hugging the blanket around her against the chilly, compressed airplane air.  She has to resist rubbing her eyes, careful not to smear her eye shadow so she blinks rapidly to clear away her haze.  She looks around to find the compartment still empty, it sets her nerves on edge to think her patron is in the back compartment, not having shown himself yet.

            It makes her nervous, letting her imagination run wild about what monster could have bought her.  What kind of person would want a short, eighteen year old virgin with no name or background?  It makes her shiver to think about it.  She sits alone on the couch until the plane starts to descend, wherein which she grasps the couch arms with a death grip even though the landing is almost completely smooth.  Once the plane comes to a stop, only then does she release the arms and stand to tug her boots on once again.  She buckles the straps, standing to put on her white trench coat again but a voice, silky smooth and deliciously deep stops her in her tracks.

            “You won’t be needing that.”

            Clary rolls her eyes, her back turned to the voice, before she works up her warm inviting smile and turns around to face her patron.  She has physical difficulty not gasping at the sight of him but manages to keep her features calm and warm, as deceitful as ever.  The man before her looks no more than twenty three, with pale blond, almost silver, hair.  His high cheekbones frame pitch black eyes with rings of dazzling silver separating the iris and pupil.  His face is handsome and beautiful, full of mirth and mischief.  His tight, muscled body is outlined in a custom made black and white suit, the classic red tie loose and hanging around his neck.

            “Why ever not?” She asks, her voice sweet and melodious.

            “Because I’d like to keep you as undressed as decently possible in public,” he says with a superior smirk touching his perfect lips.  Immediately, Clary’s attraction to him plummets, he’s just like all the other muscled, handsome, arrogant princes she’s seen.  She doesn’t let it show though, she is here it please him any way she can so she picks up her coat, folding it and placing it in her duffel, bending over to teasingly display her rear to the man before zipping up her bag and slinging it over her shoulder.

            “Whatever pleases you,” she says with a seductive twist to her warm smile.  She flips her fiery hair back over her shoulder, cocking her head as she waits for him.  Hating every second of bowing down to kiss this arrogant pig’s baby seal leather boots but she has to.

            “It would please me very much,” he says in a low voice, striding up to her and holding out his hand for her to take.  She places her small, smooth palm in his surprisingly calloused, rough one and he smiles, guiding her to the front where the guards have already lowered the staircase.  The moment she steps out onto the first step she gasps at how warm it is, the humid air caressing her skin like a blanket and what utterly shocks her is the sea of grass and trees around her.  And the sunset, it’s stunning.  The reds and oranges burst with the dark blues and purples, creating a ty dye sky, sprawling before her, making the trees look outlandish and colorful.

            She’s never seen a tree before, only seen pictures and longed to touch the rough texture of bark in real life.  She’d thought the entire world was industrialized, that the only trees, at least the kinds of ancient oaks she sees before her, were in green houses for harvesting but these are wild and tall, swaying in the slight breeze.  They’re beautiful.

            “I know,” the ivory haired man says in her ear, his mouth brushing her skin and she can’t help the slight shiver.  She must have said that out loud, not that it’s of any consequence.  She closes her mouth and descends the steps before her, the ivory haired man having let her hand go as she stepped onto the pavement.  It’s not as perfect and pristine as New York’s and she loves it.  It means it’s been used and put to use, not constantly and superfluously replaced or updated.

            The guards stand at attention at the bottom of the stairs, making a pathway for them to another hummer limo.  Clary frowns inwardly, another car.  A black suited man opens the door for them and Clary looks back to her patron, custom stating that the patron is always first but he only urges her forward into the hummer first, climbing in after her.  It feels odd to be put before the patron but as she turns to sit down on the long limo seat she catches the ivory haired man with his eyes trained on her rear.  She smiles flirtatiously when he catches her catching him stare even though the disgust is curling in her gut.

            He smirks back and seats himself across from her, spreading his long arms along the back of the seat.  She crosses her ankles, placing her duffel on the floor beside her feet.  His eyes flick to her bag, hearing the engine start up, almost silently again.  Clary watches his expression with scrutiny, trying to discern what he’ll think of his eleven million dollar slut carrying around only a small duffel bag.

            “You only have one bag?” He asks, his eyes traveling slowly up her bare legs to the dress and lingering on her chest before resting on her face.  His eyes, unlike what she would have thought, hold pure curiosity; no judgment, merely wondering.

            “I only have one bag’s worth of belongings,” Clary replies, folding her hands in her lap.

            “Well, we’ll have to fix that now won’t we?” He asks, running a hand through his already sleep mussed ivory hair, making the ends stick up.

            “I suppose we will,” Clary says quietly and turns away to marvel at the passing nature flying past her window.  Everything’s so green, not like the bright, electric neon greens of the city but natural, warm almost.  They pass a trench of liquid, it glimmers blue with the setting sunlight shining down on it and she can see things moving under the surface.  She’s never seen that before, she wonders what it is.  The liquid is clear and constantly moving, creating cliffs and peaks before they crash back down again against a pebbly shore.

            She wants to go dip her feet in the liquid all of a sudden, she thinks it is water though she’s never seen it anywhere except in the million dollar fish tanks and from the tap.  That water was always filtered and clear, the tank water laden with so many chemicals it was a wonder the fish inside didn’t die or mutate.  This water seems pure and blue.  She wants to know what it feels like to have it lap at her bare toes but that will never happen, she thinks, sitting back from the window and watching her fingers folded in her lap, once her patron tries her out he won’t let her out of his house, let alone his bedroom.  That’s how good she was trained to be, that’s how good she knows she is.

            She hears an odd chirping sound, like the sounds she’s heard from an alarm clock but higher pitched and more melodious.  She looks up, out the window and sees _things_ sitting in the trees, on their branches.  Their sharp, pin like mouths open and close in time with the chirps, talking back and forth to each other, their bright orange and blue skin, or what looks like skin but doesn’t, sparkles in the evening light.  _Birds._ She’s never seen a bird before but she’s read about them, their beautiful chirps and whistles that used to permeate the morning air almost two hundred years ago before the Industrialization.

            The skin that isn’t, if she remembers correctly, is called feathers.  They’re supposed to let the birds fly, soaring through a darkening blue sky.  She longs to see it, and as though her wish has been granted, they all take flight, as though something has scared them, and they soar up into the blue sky in a big flash of bright orange and blue, trailing long tail feathers behind them.

            She watches all the birds turn to little specks as they disappear over the tree line then flicks her eyes down to the ground at the edge of the tree line.  She sees a flash of orange and black stripes, hears a low growl before it disappears with a flick of a black striped tail in the fading light.  She desperately wants to go out and explore the wilderness, breath in the deep, clean air that she’s never known before but again, she won’t be able to do that.  She might be able to glimpse it through a window if she gets one, or maybe if he has a garden.  She still doesn’t know if he’s royalty or not and she isn’t allowed to ask.  Do not speak unless spoken to, Rule 24.

            She bows her head, closing her eyes and listening to the birds chirping and the water rushing outside the car.  She almost jolts, almost, when she hears her patron’s voice drift like silk through the car.  She looks up slowly, watching his pitch black eyes with her deceitful green ones.

            “What’s your name?”

            She’s stunned by the simple question, despite being property for a lifetime, the patrons haven’t been known to ask such simple personal questions of their Escorts.  They just want their pleasure and companions, nothing more.  She quickly unzips her duffel, slipping her hand into her coat pocket and pulling out the envelope.  She zips her bag back up and hands the envelope to him.  He holds up his hand though, stopping her hand off.

            “I asked you, not your envelope,” he says, watching her with an uncomfortable intensity.  She can’t show her discomfort though, placing the envelope back in her lap.  She runs her eyes over his face, trying to find what the purpose of knowing her name is but he’s a mask, all arrogance and mirth.

            “Clarissa,” she says, flashing her signature warm smile.

            “Clarissa,” he purrs, drawing it out with a breath and a shiver runs down her spine, though she keeps it concealed, at how he’s said it.  “Have you had an orgasm before?”

            Clary sputters, the question completely throwing her off.  She knows this is a sex business but she didn’t think her patron would ask questions like that.  Her mouth hangs open for a minute before she regains her composure.  “No.”

            “Have you touched yourself before?”

            Clary almost glares at the question.  This is an Escort business yes, but that is a _personal_ question!  “No,” she says and is horrified to find her voice sharp.  She shouldn’t cop attitude with her patron.  It’s against the rules but he doesn’t seem insulted, he seems satisfied to find that his little Escort has fire, one that she’s been told to dampen.

            “So you’ve never known pleasure?”

            “No.”

            A smirk crosses his face and she can’t help the resentment continually on the rise the longer she’s with her patron.  She doesn’t even know his name and he’s asking her if she’s had an _orgasm_ before! Her fingers close around the envelope in her lap, wanting to rip it into pieces but she manages to restrain herself.

            “You truly are a virgin,” he murmurs to himself, his gaze shuttered before turning his smirk to a smile.  “I’m Jonathan,” he says, holding out his hand for the envelope.  Clary bits back her rude retort and hands him the envelope across the small space separating his seat bench and hers.  He plucks it out of her hand, catching her hand before she can pull away and kissing the backs of her knuckles.  “Morgenstern,” he whispers against her skin, his breath fanning across her hand like flames.  The name sounds familiar but she isn’t trained in history or corporation, sadly.

            She resists snapping her hand back until he lets it go, not breaking eye contact with her.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, rubbing her thumb over her knuckles in her lap, feeling her skin cooling from the blaze Jonathan had set.

            “No, the pleasure is all mine,” he says with a devilish smile.

            “As it should be,” Clary says, forcing her smile to return.  “What would you like me to call you?”  She asks, that is probably one of the only questions she is allowed to ask.  What does he want to be called, what turns him on, how fast does he want her to go, does he like bondage; those are the only types of questions she is permitted to ask.

            “Well, most people call me Your Highness, Your Grace, Prince Jonathan, Prince,” so he is royalty.  “But I want you to call me just Jonathan.”

            “Yes, Your Grace.”  What?  She’s allowed to tease, besides it’s improper to call a royal by their name unless you are family, which she most definitely is not.  She lets a slow seductive smirk cross her lips and she can see lust blaze up in his black eyes.  He takes the envelope, expertly slitting the top and pulling out the papers within.  His eyes scan over what she thinks to be her blood work and family history, not that she has any, and his black eyes widen as he continues to read.  Clary is itching to know what Valentine put on her papers but she can’t ask.  Finally he looks up at her, slipping the papers back inside the envelope and folding it to place in his inside suit coat pocket.

            “Well didn’t I just score the crown jewels,” he says.  Clary so desperately wants to ask what the hell he means but she can’t.  She’s not allowed.  She bits her lip in frustration, watching Jonathan pull his gaze down over her body.

            She returns to looking out the window, making her hair fall forward so it curtains the side of her face, hiding the gloomy tinge to her smile.  This is what her life is now, she should learn to accept it yet some part of her is still rebelling against it, kicking and fighting being a slave.  The rest of the ride is taken in silence, Jonathan silently staring at her which she can feel burning her skin and Clary obliging the silence and taking Rule 24 to heart.

            Soon though, they reach their destination, a large, sprawling stone castle, equipped with the modern amenities of course.  Security gates, security systems, powered water fountains, perfectly maintained gardens.  All sitting at the top of a hill, overlooking a great sprawling, glowing city.  It looks like New York but doesn’t.  Nature seamlessly blending with technology and manmade buildings. It’s not as terrible as she would have thought.

            The turrets jut out over a rocky outcrop, water flowing from the castle itself and coming from around it in those water trenches to cascade over the cliff into the large pool below where she can see people gathering.  Their hummer is coming up to the castle from behind, the air strip they landed on probably the royal family’s private air field.  The castle rises tens of stories into the air, making it seem endless, almost blending perfectly with the blue sky, the tips of towers and turrets painted a dazzling sky blue.  There’s a large, well-traveled road leading down a gentle incline towards the city below the cliff but the hummer pulls up to the back gate, pausing for a moment before the gold gates open inward and they pull into a luxury garage, complete with an arsenal of armored vehicles and sports cars.

            The door opens for them and Jonathan exits first, which is completely fine with her, not wanting to be violated any more than her job requires.  Clary grabs her duffel, slinging it over her shoulder and moving to the door.  Jonathan holds out his hand to help her down but Clary, in a rash spark of defiance, steps out on her own.  She doesn’t see the prince’s reaction but she can feel his eyes on the back of her head. 

            Jonathan places a hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the lines of cars into the entryway from the garage, the guards disappearing like smoke.  The castle looks like a modern house on the inside; sleek, furred carpets, modern side tables lining the walls but what is most stunning are the paintings, portraits and landscapes all hand painted in oils and acrylic.

            She’s never seen these kinds of paintings before.  They look from around the Renaissance period and all the things from before the Industrialization were either incinerated or immortalized in museums that only the fabulously wealthy have access to, so to see them in a castle, out in the open with no case, to see them at all really, is completely stunning.  She sees paintings of a night sky by someone called Van Gogh.  An abstract painting made of reds and yellows and lines by someone called Picasso.  Then there are the portraits of regal looking royalty sitting, bedecked in finery and jewels.  The men all seem to have pale blond hair, like Jonathan’s.  The women are all stunning and gorgeous, their hair always varying from red to black to brown to blond.  The men are always as breath taking as the prince behind her, guiding her past all the paintings and up a spiral staircase to what looks like living quarters.

            The prince leans down, brushing his lips along the skin beside her ear.  “We have to be quiet, the entire court’s asleep.”

            Clary can’t help but hear the innuendo in his words.  He leads her forward, through different mazes of halls and different wings of the floor, the doors always no more than two in a hall, widely spaced.  There are crests and flags painted on the doors as they pass, all belonging to different countries which leads her to believe this floor is dedicated to different delegates and their entourage.  She recognizes them all, Spain, Portugal, Italy, France, Germany, England, Russia, India.  She assumes not all of them are occupied but enough are that they have to be silent as the prince leads her through what seems the back way to another floor, what she assumes to be the royal guests, their flags and family crests once again painted on the doors, then another floor that she thinks is for visiting family members of the ruling royal family.

            He leads her through the halls in silence and Clary feels absolutely lost.  They cross a bridge spanning what she thinks is the throne room, but is too dark to tell, to a completely different wing of the castle.  She can’t help but feel the prince of whatever country she’s in is sneaking her in.  Finally after what feels like forever, they finally reach the private wing of the royal family.

            He leads her up yet another spiral staircase, this one glass, to a divide with three halls leading off of it.  The prince leads her down the one on the far left, to the only door in the warmly painted hallway, adorned with many more paintings but it’s too dark to see them.  So she’s going to have to sleep in the same bed as him, usually patrons just take their pleasure and go to their own rooms, leaving the Escort in their personal rooms but from the look of it, this prince either wants to deflower his pretty little virgin in his own bed or she’ll be living in this room as well as him.  She hopes it’s the former so she can retreat to her own private quarters and sob, hopefully she won’t be in too much pain.  The first time is always supposed to be painful.

            The prince, for she really doesn’t want to be on a first name basis with an arrogant pig who buys virgins, opens the door and nudges her in, shutting and locking the door behind him.  He flips the lights on, revealing an entry hall.  It’s like his own personal freaking apartment inside the castle.  He has a sitting room with long, gloriously cushioned couches sat in front of a cordless plasma screen, a separate hall off to the side of the entry way that contains the bedrooms–yes heaven have mercy there’s two– with their doors slightly ajar but their lights off.  But the best part of all is the balcony, the double French doors stand open, letting the cool night time breeze sweep through the apartment and the view looks down probably hundreds of feet onto the seamlessly blended half technology, half nature city below. Beyond that she can see a silver disk floating in the blue sky so dark it looks black.

            She drops her duffel in amazement and rushes to the balcony, clutching onto the railing and staring up at the sky.  Millions of little silver dots are scattered across the sky, all around the silver disk.  It’s so beautiful, she’s never seen anything like it.  New York has too much light pollution to catch even a glimpse of the beautiful silver dots and the brilliant full silver disk.  She cranes her neck, making out pictures in the simple but brilliant silver lights.  They’re magnificent.

            She closes her eyes and feels the night breeze blowing her hair back.  If this is where she has to live for the rest of her life as a prisoner, as long as she can come out on this balcony every night, it’s worth her virginity.  She opens her eyes again, marveling at the lights in the sky.  She feels the prince come up beside her, leaning on the stone railing beside her.

            “You act as though you’ve never seen stars before,” he says, looking up peacefully at the night sky.

            “What are stars?” Clary asks wistfully, still staring up at the brilliant silver.  It looks like paint on a dark blue canvas.  The prince is silent beside her; she can feel him watching her watch the silver lights in the sky.  He reaches up and brushes a curl back from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear and she flinches away unconsciously.  She turns to the prince, horrified that she flinched but she doesn’t want to be touched by someone like him.

            The prince shows no reaction just cocks his head in curiosity.  “Do you truly not know what stars are?”  She shakes her head, her eyes wide and scared, waiting for him to punish her for flinching away from his touch.  She is supposed to do everything with his touch except flinch away from it.  He still does not react to her flinch, only adopts a curious knit of his brow.

            “Look up,” he says quietly.  She follows his command, gratefully looking up at the beautiful sky.  “See those silver lights, dotting the sky?”  She nods, her eyes tracing out the patterns in the silver dots.  “Those are called stars.  They’re big balls of gas burning millions of miles from earth.  Some of them are hundreds of times bigger than this planet and some are millions.  None of them are directly next to each other but how they look to us, we can make pictures, or constellations, in the stars.”  He raises his arm, pointing in the general direction of stars off to the south.  “See over there, that’s called Orion.  You can see the three stars in a row, which makes his belt.  Then you can see the tip of his toe, that really bright star down there and then his underarm, the other really bright star.  You can trace the rest of his body with the duller stars–“

            “None of them are dull,” Clary says, cutting him off and trying not to smack herself for it.  She can feel her chip beginning to warm in her wrist, in anticipation for her next outburst to shock her.  “They’re just less bright.”

            She can see the hint of a smile on the prince’s face out of the corner of her eye.  “You can trace the rest of his body and his bow with the less bright stars.  Orion is special; his constellation tells a story.  One,” he takes a deep breath.  “That I will tell you another time.  Come, let’s go back inside before we end up cooling the entire outside.”

            He takes her hand, gently pulling her back inside, her eyes still glued on the stars above.  He closes the French doors and draws the thick, light blue curtains, much to her disappoint but she needs to whip herself into check.  She’s only been with her patron for about an hour and she’s already stepped over several lines that she’s been forbidden to cross.  She doesn’t need the distraction.  She wants to drop his hand but she’s his property, she has to oblige him by letting him touch her as much as he wants to.

            She wipes her ridiculous school girl look off her face, placing her poster smile on her lips before turning to the prince.  She moves forward, placing her hand on his chest, pressing her lower body up against his.  She isn’t surprised to find him erect.

            She leans in to whisper in his ear.  “Where do you want me?”  She asks, brushing her lips over his neck.  She’s satisfied to feel him shiver.  She slips her hand under his shirt, running her fingernails over his hard, muscled abdomen.  She can’t fault him on his physical perfectness.  His fingers tighten on her hand and she runs her tongue over the sensitive skin beneath his ear.

            “Why don’t I show you the bedrooms?” he says, his voice hoarse.

            “Whatever my prince wants,” she purrs pulling her lips away from his ear.  She follows him back to the entryway as he picks up her duffel bag and pulls her to the side hall where the bedroom doors sit open.  He pulls her into the one on the left and doesn’t bother turning on the lights.  She hears him drop her bag.  His hands close around her hips and she tenses, her confidence plummeting and terror replacing it. She really doesn’t want to be deflowered by some pompous prince, a man she barely knows.

            She forces her body to relax, to step into his grasp and melt herself against him.  She’s nervous too, she’s never kissed anyone before, like he said earlier, she’s truly a virgin in every sense of the word.  She closes her eyes, losing herself to feel of him, the lessons of where the most erogenous parts of a man’s body is, the best ways to work them to get maximum pleasure flooding her mind.  She slides her hands up under his suit coat, his button up, to run her fingers down his spine.  He arches forward, a low growl forming in the back of his throat.

            She doesn’t understand why he’s holding back.  Is he waiting for her to kiss him?  For her to remove his clothes?  She decides to find out for herself and withdraws her hands from under his shirt, pressing her lips to the hollow of his throat and running her tongue along the skin, pressing hot kisses there.  She slides her hands up his chest, under his coat, running her mouth up his throat as she goes, and slipping off his coat.  She tosses it across the room, moving her lithe fingers up to his top button, her mouth working on his lower jaw, purposefully avoiding his mouth.  Popping it open she hears the prince growl again and she slowly, torturously pops open the next button and the next until there’s only one left.

            She waits, anticipation clearly building in the prince’s groin, his erection hot and hard, pressing into her hip.  Moving her mouth back up to his ear, she licks him, causing another shudder to run through him.  “Are you sure we have to be quiet?” She asks, using his innuendo from the hall despite her disgust but that is what her job is going to be for the rest of her life, she might as well learn to live with it.  She just needs to get through this night, it’s always supposed to be the worst your first night, especially as an Escort, especially as a virgin.  If she can get through this pain, she can get through her life.  Maybe after he falls asleep she’ll go stare at the stars again.  “Because I might be a screamer,” she whispers.

            The prince’s grasp on her hips tightens and he spins her around, burying his lips against her exposed collarbone and walking her back towards what she assumes is his bed.  She can’t help but moan as she feels his lips press against her skin, moving like velvet and fire, his teeth pulling her skin.  Her legs stop suddenly, colliding with the soft side of a bed, clad in a very fluffy comforter, as he lays her back down on it.  Her body tenses again as she feels his erection–still clothed thank god–settle between her thighs.

            She makes herself relax again, unbuttoning the last of the prince’s buttons and slipping his shirt off his arms, letting it fall softly to the floor.  He laves his tongue up her throat, leaving a scorching hot trail on her skin.  Her stomach starts to quiver as the prince drops to his knees at the edge of his bed, her lower legs hanging off the side.  Her entire body is strung as taut as rope as he unbuckles her boots.  Slowly pulling them off, his hands slide up her thighs to the tops of her pantyhose, dragging the constricting material down her legs and crumpling them up before throwing them across the room and pressing his hot lips to her thighs, her inner thighs.  She gasps and tenses her body, clenching her hands in the overstuffed comforter, still as stone, her training forgotten as his lips draw at her sensitive skin, travelling closer to her core, locked and guarded since twelve and now he has the key.

            Her whole body quivers slightly as the prince rises again, trailing his hot hands along her now bare legs.  Her eyes are squeezed shut so she can’t see the prince when he takes her innocence.  She relaxes again as his hands leave her legs, bracing on either side of her head.  She braces for his kiss, his assault on her lips, not sure how alien it will feel, how weird or wrong or foreign it will feel but it doesn’t come.  She opens her eyes, finding the prince’s pitch black eyes in the dim room.  His brow is creased as he searches her face.

            She reaches up and cups his cheeks, running her thumbs over his cheekbones, trying not to be distracted by his naked, gorgeous torso and his want settled between her thighs.  “Is something wrong my prince?  Is there something you want me to do?”  She asks, hoping that he isn’t mad with her, or displeased.  She likes it here, in this natural country with its stars and trees and water trenches and birds and big orange and black striped animals.  She doesn’t want to go to New York and if being a sex slave to this not so bad looking, albeit arrogant, prince means she’ll stay here, she thinks it’s worth it.  So she’s will do everything in her power to please him however he wants.

            “Answer my question, truthfully,” he says, his eyes scanning her face in the dark.

            “Of course.”

            “Are you scared?”

            The question shocks her into a stunned silence.  Could he tell she is scared?  She’s not doing her job right if he sees her fear.  She starts to shake her head, wanting to please him and prove to him that she wants him to have her, if only to stay here but he cuts her off.

            “You will remember that you are not allowed to lie to your patron when he asks a question.  And it’s even worse to lie to royalty,” he says lowly, his face not changing.

            Clary stops moving for a moment.  If she says yes, he’ll send her away, send her back to Valentine and New York to be auctioned off again.  She can’t go back, she doesn’t want to go back to corporate buildings and sex training.  Valentine will be furious if she’s sent back.  She can’t tell what he’ll do to her.  But she is obligated to tell the truth to her patron, only when he asks though.  If all Escorts told the truth half of them would scream at their patrons and say they hated them for buying people like property.  She’s supposed to tell the truth that will please their patron but she can’t tell what will please this prince.

            His black gaze is piercing, pinning her to the bed and dragging the truth out of her.  She finds herself, to her dismay, nodding.  The prince though, _smiles_ at her, shocking her into stillness.  He dips his head, massaging her neck with his lips and sucking the tension out of her. 

            “I understand Clarissa,” he whispers, pulling his lips back to just brush her skin.  “I don’t want you to be scared.  We can wait another night, wait for you to get to know me, to get settled.”  He trails sweetheart kisses down her throat to the hollow of her collarbone.  “You must be tired besides.  Today must have been stressful for you.”  He pulls back, taking her hands and pulling her off the bed.  How is he being so compassionate?  Why, more importantly.  Without her boots her eyes only come to his collarbone, bare and naked in the dimness.  “I thought as much.  Come, I’ll show you to your room.  Unless… you would like to sleep in here, with me.”  His eyes search hers, hopeful.

            “Where do _you_ want me?”  She asks, repeating her question but with a lot less suggestion, more timidity and shyness.

            “Where you will be most comfortable,” he replies.  She’ll feel more comfortable in the bedroom across the hall but she needs to be more comfortable with the prince, comfortable enough that she’ll be relaxed enough so he can deflower her by tomorrow.  It might not be so bad either to have strong warm arms wrapped around her while she sleeps too.  Oddly enough she’s never liked sleeping alone, she supposes it’s from being abandoned by her parents.  She just doesn’t like to be alone so she forces herself to reply to the prince.

            “With you,” she says, her voice regaining some of its silky quality to her relief.  He smiles, the first true smile she’s seen from him, and he pulls her close to him, placing a warm kiss on her cheek.

            “I’ll let you get washed up.  Come, the bathroom’s this way.”  He leads her back out into the dimly lit hall and down one door to a hidden bathroom she hadn’t seen.  Its tan tile with veins of quartz, a large, enclosed stone tile shower and a sunken bathtub with two vanities with huge mirrors on either side.

            “I’ll leave you to it,” he says, slipping out the door.  Clary nearly collapses to the ground in relief, he hadn’t sent her back.  But now she needs to make sure she’s comfortable enough so she can let him have her innocence because she isn’t going back to New York.  She takes a deep breath, striding over to the shower and turning it on to scalding hot.  She sheds her dress, her black satin bra and panties and steps under the scalding water, watching it turn her pale skin red. 

            She finds feminine soaps tucked into the back of the sunken stone shelf.  She’s intrigued by what smells the prince picked out for her, what he thinks a woman should smell like.  She finds coconut and hibiscus shampoo and conditioner and a floral scented body wash.  She likes how they smell.  After she’s done showering she stands idle under the water, reveling in the burn the water is giving her, lingering for a while before she finally exits and grabs an incredibly fluffy towel, drying off and wrapping it around her chest.  She crosses to the mirror, frowning, then exiting the bathroom back to the prince’s room where her duffel is.

            She pushes open the door, letting light flood the room and the naked prince donning a pair of sweatpants.  Her eyes widen and she scrambles for her duffel, slamming the door behind her and rushing back to the bathroom.  She’s seen a naked man before, it was just a shock to see _that_ naked man, the one who is supposed to stick his distinctly male parts in her distinctly female parts and steal her virginity.

            She blows out a breath, annoyed at herself.  She needs to get her emotions under control, she can do this.  She places her duffel on the counter, unzipping it and finding the smaller bag with her brush, toothbrush, toothpaste, makeup, feminine products… birth control.  Night’s House allows their Escorts two months of birth control, to let them become accustomed to their patrons without the risk of pregnancy.  It’s optional to take and it’s up to the patrons, if the Escorts tell them, to get more birth control.  She pushes the pills to the bottom of her bag and starts brushing out her red curls, letting them twist and spiral back to their normal shape, extra coiled because of being straightened all day.

            She takes her makeup wipes and scrubs off the dark blue eye shadow, black eyeliner, pink blush, peach lip gloss and foundation from her face.  Feeling a hundred pounds lighter without it, she throws the wipe in the trash bin and digs around for one of her dorm shirts and some underwear.  She’s always slept without a bra because it’s uncomfortable and because it allows the patrons easier access say if in the morning they want a little play time they won’t have to undo the bra.

            She hates being property, she hates having to follow all these rules placed over her when she wanted nothing to do with this life.  It was forced on her at twelve, she doesn’t want to be here. Not in this country, it’s beautiful but in this castle, in the confines of the prince’s apartment where she’s going to have to let him have her sooner or later.

            She slides her duffel under the sink, hanging the towel back up and turning off the lights before sliding back into the hall.  She walks impossibly slow to the prince’s bedroom, pausing outside the closed door, her hand hovering over the handle.  She needs to just go in, climb in bed and press up against the prince’s body.  That’s what she’s supposed to do, she needs to prove to the prince that she’s not afraid, even though she is, so the worst part can be over with.  She’s staring at the handle, polished metal, she’s surprised it isn’t gold encrusted diamond.  She would expect as much from a prince of this caliber, judging from what she’s seen of his castle.

            She steels herself and opens the door, finding a dark room and no prince.  She’s not about to seek him out so she stalks over to the bed, eyeing the bed with disdain.  Now her panic is gone all she feels is hatred.  She’s ultimately a play toy for the enjoyment of a stuck up prince.  She didn’t sleep at all last night, too nervous to so she’s rather tired and his bed looks plush and comfortable but does she really want to wake up with an erection pressed against her back?

            She closes her eyes, happy that her previous disdain is back in place instead of her fight or flight panic.  Being the virgin that she is, she was expecting a shock from all of this of course, but she knew what to expect.  She knew about the pain, about the kissing, the touching but the lessons hadn’t prepared her at all for the real thing nor were they supposed to.  But she didn’t think she would be this scared.

            She turns around, striding out the door back to the sitting area.  She draws a curtain back, unlocking the balcony door, and slips out into the cool night.  It’s still hot and humid enough that the air blankets her already hot skin.  She turns her head up to the stars dotting the sky, her eyes immediately finding Orion and his belt.  She wonders absently what kind of story he has to tell.  She’ll have to ask the prince sometime.

            She hears hoots from the forest surrounding the back of the castle and wonders what kind of animal is making that sound.  All of a sudden there is a symphony of howls, low and long and forlorn, all echoing back to each other, like some sort of concerto.  She listens to the sounds of the night, so different from the honking horns and blazing lights of New York.  It quiet and peaceful, the stars shining brightly.  For once in her life, it’s tranquil.

            She turns her face up to the silver light being cast by the silver disk in the middle of the stars.  She wonders if that’s a star too.  It’s very big.  Closing her eyes she takes a deep breath of the thick air, blowing it out through her nose.  Oh yes, she could get used to this.  The tranquility is broken however by her patron’s beckoning voice, calling her from within his apartment in his castle.  Her real smile falls, replaced by a fake, tired and sexily timid one before she slips back inside.  Closing and locking the door behind her.

            She finds the prince in mid stride from the bedrooms.  His upper half is bare naked and in the light she can’t help but drool over the masterfully sculpted muscles, the deep V-line leading down to what is supposed to take her innocence, his taut biceps curling down his arms into those powerful hands that had held her hips and caressed her face.  Looking at him like this, she wouldn’t think him capable of compassion or kindness.  She still doesn’t, he is only patient, biding his time to have his eleven million dollar Escort willing and welcoming.  He’s smart, smarter than he looks to play it like that.  If he earns the Escort’s, her, trust first then he’ll have no struggles in the future, just pure pleasure and she’ll be nothing but willing to give it to him.

            She doesn’t want to but she’ll have to if she wants to stay in this paradise and not go back to that concrete jungle of New York.  “Yes my prince?” She asks, her back against the glass balcony door.

            He seems to enjoy it when she calls him ‘my prince,’ she’ll have to continue doing so.  His eyes roam her bare legs and the hint of black panties peeking out the bottom of her shirt appreciatively before striding over to her and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her close.  Definitely just patient, if he really cared if she was scared or not he would not be touching her.

            “I want you to come to bed my sweet.  You need to rest,” he says softly, burying his nose in her neck, breathing deeply, probably wanting to smell the scents he picked out just for her.  She arches her body against his ever so slightly, the need to stay here crushing her panic.  His arms squeeze tighter around her waist, so warm and taut.  Maybe she could get used to being held by such a man.

            “Anything you want,” she whispers back, wrapping her arms around his neck.  He surprises her by bending down and sweeping her legs out from under her, picking her up and holding her to his chest.  He litters kisses all down the side of her neck, stopping to imbue his tongue in the hollow of her collarbone.  He shoves open his door with his hip, kicking it closed with a definitive click.  She notices that he hasn’t kissed her on the lips yet, maybe wanting to enjoy the full extent of it when he’s enjoying the first feel of her body taking his in.

            She doesn’t care at the moment, thankful he’s avoided taking her first kiss as well; he sets her down on the super fluffed, super cushioned bed.  He peels back the covers and she feels silk caress her bare legs, the prince sliding between her and the top sheet and comforter.  The bed feels huge, sprawling beyond even the prince’s reach.  His thighs hold her hips in place as his hands brace on either side of her head, his mouth roaming her throat and she lets him, getting accustomed to the feel and smell of him.  She has to admit he does feel rather good, especially that thing he’s doing with his teeth to the skin just below her collarbone, traveling lower and lower…

            She gasps as she feels him pull down her shirt, forming a low V, exposing her right breast.  His tongue trails around her nipple before his teeth graze her areola.  She arches her body up at the surprisingly pleasurable sensation.  She’d been taught that men like to bite women’s breasts, she’d been told she’d have to tolerate it but it had never sounded very pleasant to her.  She remembers sitting with her legs crossed on the bean bags they provided for classes, wanting to make sure the Escorts were loose and flexible, the bean bags always shifting.  She remembers the female teacher giving the lesson, describe how men like to nip and bite and suck and she had unconsciously crossed her arms over her chest, she’d been thirteen, but the instructor scolded her.

            Though as the prince nips at her, sucking her breast she can’t help the low moans escaping her throat, sending waves of pleasure through her.  He stops though, dragging his lips back up her chest and letting her shirt spring back over her pert nipple.  He kisses her cheek softly.

            “I’ll leave you that to think about.  It might change your perspective,” he whispers, trailing his tongue along her jaw, running his hands down her body before slowly removing his himself from above her.  He lays down beside her and she feels her body, pulled as though by a magnet, slide over and press against his.

            She can feel his triumphant smile as he slides his arm around her waist.  She lets her disgust reign as she buries her face in the pillows.  She shouldn’t have let him do that but it’s her only option, her job so she keeps her mouth shut and throws her leg over his like a good little girl and goes to sleep.


	2. Darkness Descending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disgust coils under her breasts. 'You’re my responsibility.' She is no one’s responsibility; she raised herself on her own. She hasn’t relied on anyone for anything her entire life and she isn’t about to start relying on some spoiled prince to take care of her.

Clary feels the prince’s morning problem, pressing into her hip, before she’s even fully conscious.  She’s lying on her back with the prince on his side, pressed against her.  Opening her eyes, she turns her head on the very comfortable pillow and looks around the prince’s room.  The bed is a super king size–fit for a prince–with black silk sheets and a dark blue comforter.  The walls are a nice contrast of mocha tan and adorned with tons of shelves either holding a plethora of trophies, ribbons and awards or books.  Mostly books.

The prince’s arm is thrown across her stomach, resting limpidly along her hips and she easily slips out from under it, thankfully relieving the pressure of his male morning problem.  She stretches before looking back over the prince’s sleeping body.  His face is half buried in the pillows, his arm still stretched out as though she were under it and his bare back exposed to her wandering eyes.  His wonderfully sculpted shoulder blades move with every breath he takes and she can see his biceps flexing unconsciously.

She rolls her eyes, why does he have to be such an arrogant pig?  Sure he has beauty to match that of his country, not that she knows what country this is, but his confidence (arrogance more like) is going to become suffocating and insufferable.  She pads over to the door, slipping out into the hallway where the lights in the ceiling blink on, motion activated.  Entering the living area, she can see the curtains still closed and she moves to open them, letting the morning sunlight stream in, casting vibrant reds and oranges across the tile floor.  The dawn is as beautiful as the dusk here, colors all fresh and new and bright, warming her skin.  She smiles, stepping out onto the already warm stone and into the warmer morning air.  She grasps the railings, leaning down to the city below. 

She’s never seen a dawn so beautiful or bursting with color, a natural color that doesn’t come from pollutants in the air.  New York dawns were gray, and sickly yellow at worst, feverish blue and purple and green.  Below, she can already see the cars and foot traffic bustling, she can see tour buses flying three levels above taxi traffic which is surprisingly not as thick as New York and then residential car traffic at the very bottom.

She can’t see the people but she can see the dark blurbs of movement indicating them and she wants nothing more than to go explore this bizarre half nature, half technology city but she doesn’t think her prince will let her out of the castle any time soon.  At least not until he’s deflowered her.  She stands out on the balcony, bathing in the warm sun until the air becomes too hot and she’s pushed the chance of a sunburn and retreats inside to the air conditioned castle.

What she was not expecting this morning was to be knocked down by a giant wolf hound but that is exactly what happened.  It pins her to the floor and licks her face, wagging its tail ferociously.  It seems very excited to see her and with the continued licking she begins to laugh, turning her head from side to side, barely getting out the word ‘stop’ between licks.  He’s very soft and _big_ as she tries to push the dog off, his fur is shorn short because of the heat but it’s still silky smooth.  Someone is shouting at the dog, taking it by the collar and dragging it off her then taking her hand and helping her up.

She wipes the slobber off her face, the giant wolfhound still assaulting her, trying to get attention, standing almost to her hip in height, and she looks up at her savior.  He’s tall, lanky, rather scrawny with chocolate brown curls and square glasses framing nice, kind eyes.

“You must be Prince Jonathan’s companion,” he says and turning to the dog for a moment, scolding it in an unfamiliar language.  It immediately plunks its rear down on the tile, panting with a big, very sharp toothed grin, its tail still wagging rapidly as it stares at her.  The brown haired man turns back to her, holding out his hand; she shakes it.  “I’m Simon, the prince’s squire.  This,” he says indicating the wolfhound very clearly having difficulty staying still.  “Is Sterling and that,” he says pointing to another wolfhound who has curled up on the couch across the room.  “Is Silver.  She’s very lazy,” he whispers, making Clary crack a small smile.

“I’m Clarissa.  Is there something you needed?” she asks.  “The prince is still asleep.”

Simon shakes his head.  “No, I was just sent up to tell him that there’s a family breakfast later this morning if he didn’t already get the message on his fridge,” he says pointing towards the small kitchenette in the back of the living room, complete with a small granite island, fridge, stove top, and microwave.  On the stainless steel fridge is a large LED display rotating pictures and messages.  The one flashing at the top in big bright letters is FAMILY BREAKFAST AT ELEVEN.  DON’T BE LATE JONATHAN -MOM.  “He’s supposed to be up by now any way.  Did you do something to him I should know about?”  Simon flashes a playful smile and Clary blushes red at the innuendo in his words.

Clary smiles at the little note, turning to hide her blush, imagining the reigning queen here scolding her pampered prince before looking back to Simon.  “I’ll be sure to tell him,” she says with a sweet smile, turning back after getting her blush under control.  This squire seems very docile, especially for one of the prince of the realm.  They’re usually known to flaunt their status but Simon seems humble and content, almost like she would expect a normal teenage boy to act; that is if she knew what _normal_ was.

“Oh, and one more thing.  Prince Jonathan is supposed to bring his companion for the royal family to meet.  So I guess that would be you.  Would you mind if I left the dogs here?  I have to go take care of the horses,” he says, inching toward the door. 

“Not at all,” she says sweetly, flashing him a genuine smile.  She hopes to see more of him; he doesn’t seem to care about her looks even though she’s half naked under her dorm shirt.  So far he’s only looked at her face.  Simon smiles at her before awkwardly slipping out the door and leaving her with an unconscious prince and his two dogs in a castle in an unfamiliar part of the world.  The door clicks shut and Sterling immediately snaps to attention, jumping to all fours and sniffing around her legs.  The whiskers on his snout graze her skin, making her giggle and bat the dog away.

“Stop that,” she says, crossing to the kitchenette.  She looks at the display on the fridge, messages and pictures interchanging.  Messages like:

JONATHAN’S NIGHT’S HOUSE TRIP- YESTERDAY

 

FAMILY BREAKFAST- ELEVEN

 

EQUSTRIAN TOURNAMENT-TOMORROW

 

THE QUEEN’S DRESS FITTING-THURSDAY

 

U.N. GALA- SATURDAY

 

She wonders what all these events are for.  She doesn’t ever remember the mention of a U.N.  Maybe it’s some sort of royal gathering.  Sterling is still circling around her, smelling her and licking up her legs.  It’s almost scary how big the dog is, as tall as her waist, its head coming level with her naval.  She reaches out tentatively, letting the dog sniff her palm before she runs her hand over the short, soft fur on his forehead. Sterling leans into the pet, obviously enjoying the attention before Clary withdraws her hand and pads over to the bedroom hall, walking down to the bathroom for her duffel.  Rummaging around, she finds her ancient copy of _A Tale of Two Cities._  Valentine had somehow managed to find the book, giving it to her for her fourteenth birthday present.  She doesn’t let the memories and connotations of the book swamp her.

She walks back out to the living room, plopping down on the couch beside Silver who is still sleeping soundly.  She finds her place in her book, after tying her annoyingly wild curls back in a bun and begins reading only to be interrupted when Sterling leaps onto the couch, sitting down on the opposite side of her then laying down, throwing his front paws across her lap and going to sleep like Silver, who has now shifted and is curled up against her side.  She feels squished, the dogs pressed up against her sides, across her legs but she doesn’t mind, just lays her book across Sterling’s back and continues reading until the sun has completely risen in the sky and the day has clearly begun, though her prince doesn’t seem to think so.

She ends up closing her book and scratching behind Sterling’s ears until they perk up and he bolts off the couch, racing for her ivory haired prince coming out from the his bedroom.  Silver only raises her head in acknowledgement before laying her head down in Clary’s lap.  The prince scratches Sterling’s head before heading over to Clary, curled up on the couch with his other pet.  He braces his hands on the back of the couch, leaning down and caging her in.

She presses back against the couch as the prince leans in closer, and she smiles up at him, admiring his sleepy, relaxed face and mussed hair.  He smiles back and dips his mouth to her neck, kissing up her throat and she purrs, arching her body up and tangling her fingers in his hair.

“That’s a nice way to say good morning,” she whispers, his tongue licking at the tender skin he just rolled between his teeth.

“I thought I’d give you a special good morning after your first night,” he says quietly.

“I liked it very much.  Oh, and your squire came earlier to tell you that you have a family breakfast at eleven,” she says, running her hands down his biceps.  Silver stirs in her lap and lifts her head, nudging the prince’s chest insistently until he pulls his lips away from her throat and gives some attention to his dog.

Clary slips out from under him and stands, walking toward the bathroom, wanting to slip away unseen and change.  She’s almost to the hallway, her prince still rapt in petting his dog but Sterling pops up all of a sudden, wagging his tail and blocking her path to the hallway.  Clary frowns and tries side stepping the dog but he seems set on getting her to pet him.  The prince takes this opportunity to stalk up behind her and wrap his arms around her waist, pulling her back against him.

“I might just have to skip it and stay here with you,” he murmurs, his hands creeping downward.  She tenses fractionally.

“Your mother said not to be late,” she says turning around in his grasp and draping her arms around his neck.   She presses her body up against his and shutters her gaze.  “I’ll be here when you get back,” she whispers.  “To do with _everything_ you want to.”  She knows that Simon said the royal family wanted to meet her but she’s not sure she wants to meet them.  What if they treat her like the slut Valentine made her into?  Or she’s disregarded like a play toy?  She knows that she has her job of pleasing the prince but she doesn’t want to have it rubbed in by the royal family.  She doesn’t believe she’s fit for anything more than what she was trained to do, and that’s nothing outside the bedroom.  She was raised on the streets and in a whore house, she was meant to be coveted and kept in a bedroom or strutted about in front of others at galas and balls, not presented before the glares a royal family in private.

All the other Escorts have some royal blood in them, they were meant to be flaunted in front of a royal court.  She was born an orphan and street urchin, yes she had the training to be presented in front of royals, trained to be sophisticated and proper but she just won’t feel right being brought before the prince’s family.  It wouldn’t be right and she wouldn’t feel right.  And the prince doesn’t know she was supposed to come with him nor does he have to.

“Everything?” he whispers, lust blazing in his black eyes.  She smirks and takes his hand, guiding it down her front, despite what her mind is screaming at her, and slips his hand into her panties.

His fingers tighten and slide over her dark red curls.  “Everything.”  She jumps as his fingers slide lower, brushing over her inner heat.  He growls low in his throat as she looks up at him through thick red lashes, waiting for him to go farther, her whole body tensed at the prospect.

“You have no idea how much I want to throw you onto my bed and lock the door behind me,” the prince says, slowly backing her against the wall until her spine is pressed flush with the high end plaster.  His fingers apply the slightest pressure and she arches forward, wholly encouraging the prince to take it, lock himself in a room with her, get it over with because the anticipation is killing her, the fear of the unknown is killing her.  He leans his forehead against hers, his breathing becoming heavy as his eyes linger on her lips, physically restraining himself from taking his liberties before his eyelids flutter shut and he withdraws his hand from her dark triangle of curls.  “But, the Queen will not be too delighted if I skip breakfast… again,” he says and can’t help himself from pressing a kiss onto her cheek, trailing his tongue down her jaw and pulling away.

Clary slips away from the cage of his arms, her back turned to the prince, knowing that he’s watching and she slowly slides her thumbs into the bottom of her panties, pulling them out from being ridden up, letting it snap back against her rear with a satisfying crack against her taut butt.  She can practically feel the prince drooling.  She looks back over her shoulder with a seductive smirk.  “I think I’ll go back to bed.  Enjoy breakfast.”

And she stalks back to the prince’s bedroom, truly wanting to go back to sleep.  She hadn’t been entirely comfortable last night, sleeping with a male next to her, though Night’s House had assured it wouldn’t be a foreign sensation.  She closes the door behind her, plunging the room back into darkness and only just realizing that Silver has followed her in.  She falls back into bed, Silver jumping up on the bed and curling beside her.  Not ten minutes later she hears the prince come in, letting light flood the room.  Silver stays curled up beside her and she stays curled under the wonderful silk sheets as she feels the prince slowly crawl his way up the bed, coming to straddle her body, turned on her stomach as she plays the unconscious girl.

She feels him lower his body over hers, burying his nose in her now undone hair.  She takes a deep breath, pretending to wake, and turns on her back, smiling up at the rather hard prince and runs a thumb over his cheekbone.  “Back so soon?  Could you not wait to taste your _precious_ virgin?” she says teasingly, breathing out her words, mocking him ever so slightly but that is one of her lessons.  Mockery to a certain extent gets the men hot and bothered, trying to outwit the women they intend to bed.

“I still cannot wait nor bear to be away from her, which is why I’m delighted to have learned that she were meant to attend.  Tell me, my precious virgin, did this little detail happen to slip your mind?” he asks, dipping his nose into the curve of her neck, grazing it along her skin. 

He draws back to smirk at her.  Clary dons a coy smile, shrugging one shoulder tiredly.  “It may have been mentioned by your squire.  It may not have; it was dawn when the message was given to me.”  Clary gives a tired sigh.  “I was tired, my prince, hence my presence in bed that you so rudely interrupted.”

The prince’s eyes flick to Silver, still sleeping beside her then back to her.  “It seems my dog gets more affection in bed from you than I do.  After the breakfast that you seem so set on not attending, I shall have to right that, no?” he says, settling his erection between her thighs through the comforter and thrusting slowly forward, teasing her deliciously through the sheets.  She gasps in pleasure despite the small spike of fear and anticipation.

“Whatever,” she hisses in pleasure, closing her eyes and tipping her head back, “my prince… desires.”

He growls low in his throat.  “Sadly, at the moment I cannot have what I desire,” he says, punctuating his words with another stroke.  “So why don’t you go dress and meet me in the living room?”

He mercifully pulls away, running a finger down the side of her jaw.  “I am but your humble servant,” she whispers, even though her mind is rebelling against her statement.

The prince pulls away, rolling off the bed and giving a short whistle to call Silver off as well.  The wolfhound leaps from the bed just as Clary slides out, placing her feet on the cool hardwood.  The prince’s eyebrow rises and Clary slips past him to the bathroom, her seductive smile fading.  She won’t feel right being presented to royalty, she doesn’t think she’s even fit for royal presence besides the bedroom.  She’s a mud-blooded nobody, not the descendants or relatives of royalty.  She’s a street rat.

She quells her fear and disgust for herself and the self-righteous prince, whose needs she has to attend to for the rest of her life, and strides into the bathroom, pulling out a dark blue sundress with a white belt around the middle.  She pulls it on, looking at herself in the mirror, and feels completely inadequate as she puts on light makeup, slipping on her two inch, blue heels to match her dress.  She combs out her hair, plaiting it over her shoulder before clipping a small flower ornament to the end.

She looks at herself in the mirror, hoping this breakfast will go by quickly and without incident, before slowly forcing herself to turn the bathroom door handle and meet her prince in the living room like she was told.  She finds him in a white button up shirt and tan slacks, nothing done to his hair, leaving it wild and gorgeous.  A smirk lights his face as he sees her emerging from the hall and she throws her shoulders back, forcing her good posture on her body as she was taught and linking her arm with the prince’s offered one.

He says something in the same language Simon had spoken and his two dogs jump from the couch and fall into step behind them as he leads her out of his apartment. Down his personal hall they go, across the bridge that spans the throne room, but he moves too quickly for her to get a proper glance at it.  Soon, he steps with her into an elevator she hadn’t seen last night.  Of course the castle has modern amenities.

He slips inside the mirrored elevator, pressing an unlabeled button, and the doors slide soundlessly closed, the elevator cables gliding smoothly against each other as the elevator goes down.  The second the doors open, Clary wants to bolt back upstairs, away from the formality and people.  She hasn’t realized it before but she isn’t one for crowds.  Valentine kept her in seclusion, save a few students with each lesson, most of her life and she doesn’t think she’s very good at talking about anything other than bedroom related things.

This is all flying through her head despite the royalty lessons at Night’s House, one of the most defining factors of the Night’s House establishment; the Escorts know how to present themselves in front of a court.  Maybe if she just withdraws herself and puts on her classic ‘I-look-like-I-want-to be-here-but-really-I’m-hating-you-all-on-the-inside’ mask, she’ll be able to survive without getting her head ripped off.  Yes, of course she can do that.  She didn’t suffer six years of Night’s House conditioning for nothing, then after breakfast she’ll retreat back to the prince’s room and sit on the balcony as long as the prince will allow before she’s taken to bed. 

She forces her warm smile onto her face and throws her shoulders back despite the crushing anxiety as the prince leads her out of the elevator to the long oak wood table where his royal family is seated.

At the head, she assumes is the king, sitting tall and proud with an air of kindness to him, something gentle and fatherly.  His dark brown hair has a single streak of gray but does nothing to hinder his youthful handsomeness.  He’s eating a plate of fruit and pancakes perfectly but he makes it look like he isn’t putting any effort into looking formal.

Beside him sits a regal looking woman, tall and kind, with an aspect of authority surrounding her.  But a sweet motherly aura oozes from her very smile as she talks to the others sitting around the table.  Her hair is a shade darker than Clary’s, deep crimson with streaks of sun lightened red.  When the queen looks down the table at the two emerging from the elevator, Clary is shocked to see her own eyes reflected in the woman’s, a vibrant green clouded by a secret grief, harboring so much more wisdom and experience than Clary could ever help to achieve. 

A slight frown creases the woman’s lips as she sees the prince, who is probably late; she hasn’t checked the time.  The prince walks them up the table to the opposite side of the queen and seats himself and Clary on the king’s other side.  The wall of windows behind the king lets in the morning sunlight, allowing it to spill over everyone and give them a golden aura.  Clary’s seems dirt colored in comparison.  The other occupants at the table look to the prince and Clary tries to avoid catching anyone’s eye.  Only a few other people sit at the unnecessarily long table, eating and chatting away.  She sees Simon standing in the corner along with a few more servants; she flashes a smile at him, one that he returns goofily and Clary relaxes slightly beside the prince.

As they sit down, the dogs sit behind the prince along the wall, and there are two plates brought out and placed in front of them.  Clary isn’t feeling terribly hungry as she feels the questing looks from the other occupants.  She knows she looks desirable, that she is supposed to have lustful looks thrown her way but still remain loyal to her patron.  That doesn’t make it any more comfortable; the hot gazes from the rest of the men down the table, some clearly ambassadors from other countries and others, closer to the royals, are family.  She picks up her fork anyway and starts to stake the fruits on her plate.

“You were late, Jonathan,” the queen says softly, curiously.

The prince looks up with innocent eyes but she can see the double entendre loaded in his eyes.  “I apologize Your Grace.  I was distracted showing Clarissa around the castle,” he says, picking up his own utensils with the grace and regality of royalty.

She can feel the queen’s gaze flick wonderingly to her but Clary keeps her head bowed and her eyes trained on her food or the beautiful forest and city outside the window.  “Clarissa,” the queen says questioningly, her name whispering off her lips.  Clary looks up at the beautiful redhead queen, a warm smile on her face, and something about the queen strikes her as familiar but it’s gone in a moment.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Tell us about yourself.  I’d like to know who is keeping my son company nowadays,” the queen says, picking up her fork gracefully and cutting a piece of pancake.

“There really isn’t that much to tell Your Grace.  Really,” Clary says, her discomfort sky rocketing as her childhood comes rushing back to her, unbidden and bitter.  She doesn’t want to talk about herself, she already doesn’t feel like she belongs in this palace, admitting that she’s an orphan nobody will essentially be committing comfort suicide, she’ll never belong but if she says as much what little comfort she has gets thrown into flames.

“Sure there is,” the queen prompts.  “A beautiful girl like you.  There must be a tale to how you managed to end up in Idris, warming my son’s bed.”  Clary can hear the slight tinge of bitterness and she knows that she isn’t welcome here, especially by the queen herself.  Great.

“Your Majesty,” the prince snaps beside her, startling her slightly.  “You have no claim to call me your son, but I am still the Heir of Idris and command the respect of the court and the people.  As such, I would expect those invited into my company by myself will be treated with the same respect.  I will not have my companion, who _I_ invited into _my_ bed, be ridiculed and put down.  Not that it is any of your business in the first place.  She was welcomed here by me, the Heir of Idris.  With all due respect Your Grace, you would do well to remember that.”

She can feel the tension and unspoken insults and threats behind the prince’s words.  How is he the Heir to Idris—Idris being no less than the second wealthiest, most powerful country in the world—if he is not the queen’s son?  The queen immediately drops the subject, the king silent beside the prince.  One of the other table occupants speaks up then, trying to diffuse the tension.

“You said your name was Clarissa?” a tall, semi Asian man with spiky black hair that looks drenched in glitter asks.

Clary looks away from the window her gaze had wandered to, to the man.  “Yes.”

“It’s a beautiful name, is it English?  German?” he asks, picking at the food on his plate, almost mirroring Clary’s actions.

“It’s Latin actually,” Clary says, remembering how Valentine went into this whole speech about how beautiful her name was when she was first dragged to his office.  He went into origins and how it sounded, wholly freaking Clary out and making her think she was kidnapped just for a history lesson.  The horror.

“But you grew up in New York?” the queen’s soft voice chimes in, none of the mocking or bitterness from just a few moments before evident in her voice but, Clary is still cautious as she turns to the queen.

“Yes, Your Majesty, I did,” she replies, shifting in her seat and taking another bite of fruit.  She doesn’t like where this conversation is going.  This is exactly what she thought would happen, her nightmare playing itself out in front of all of them.  They just don’t realize it.

“What part of New York?”

Clary bites her lip in indecision, she isn’t supposed to lie to royalty but she didn’t think she had to.  At the rate these Idrians are going she’ll either have to lie, tell the truth and live with the guilt and shame or fake a stomach ache and leave.  To her absolute horror, be it because of the queen’s returned kind and motherly look, prompting her to the innocent question, or her subconscious want to try and please the people she’ll be living with for the rest of her life, she speaks.

“All over the state for twelve years, then Brooklyn for six.”  Clary resists smacking herself or digging her nails into her thighs; she shouldn’t have said that.  Now they’re going to ask why she moved around because Escorts, before they become one, are expected to be from a royal family.  Royals do not move and therefore it would be peculiar why she did.  Then she’ll have to tell them, have to endure the judging glances and upturned noses but what urges her on is the prince’s comment last night, in the truck from the air field.  _I really have scored the crown jewels._ He’d looked at her papers and still called her crown jewels.  Peculiar.

And just as she suspected, the king himself voices the question, his voice kind and rough, it reminds her of what an encouraging father should sound like.  “Why ‘all over?’  Did your parents move you?”

Her eyes flick to the brown haired king with nice, pale blue eyes and easy smile.  She still doesn’t understand how Jonathan can be the Heir if the queen is not his mother and the king certainly does not look like his father.  “No, Your Majesty.  My parents did not move me, I chose the lifestyle.  I liked the change.”  That was a complete and utter lie, she hated the change, hated moving from foster home to foster home.  Then not having a steady home to return to when she was living on the streets.  Though later, in Night’s House, she had longed for change, longed to be away from sex classes and bedroom training.  You never know what you have until you’ve lost it.

“What did your parents think about it though?  Did they actually approve of you moving so much?” the queen asks, sounding aghast.  “I wouldn’t have let my child out of my sight in New York, with Night’s House’s lackeys roaming the streets.”

The irony of the queen’s statement strikes home in Clary’s chest and her smile turns a little sour for a moment before she fixes it but changes her mind and lets it drop completely, the age old anger and loneliness and painful question rising up in her head.  “My parents did not think anything, Your Majesty,” she says softly, her eyes glazing over slightly, remembering the first years in the foster homes.  The only people who would take kids, especially a nobody like her, were abusive and strict.  She still has the scar on the back of her neck from the cable her first foster father had whipped her with for not being quiet enough for him to hear his football match.  The little scar at the base of her spine from being slammed up against the wall.

“Surely they had to have thought something,” the queen says, setting down her silverware, having finished her breakfast.

Anger wells and knots in her chest, trying to push tears out through her eyes but she pushes them down.  “My parents lost their right to think anything for me when they left me on the doorstep of an abandoned apartment complex,” Clary says bitterly, the words pouring out without restraint and Clary’s eyes widen, her hand flying to her mouth, trying to stop the words that have already been set on the breakfast table.  There is a shocked silence rounding the table, everyone sitting uncomfortably and awkwardly still.  All except for the prince beside her, who only sits with a pitiful air to him.  She doesn’t want his pity and stands before anyone can say anything else.

“You’ll have to excuse me a minute.  I’m not feeling too well.”  She sets her napkin on the table and curtsies to the king and queen.  “Your Majesties.”  Then turns to the prince, whose expression is blank, the only hint of emotion in his black eyes, reflecting sadness and apology up at her.  She drops her eyes, his look too painful to bear, along with a curtsey.  “Your Highness,” she mutters before rushing as quickly as she can in heels back to the elevator, which opens with a ding as she approaches.

She steps in, keeping her head bowed and eyes on the floor, catching a glimpse of gray fur beside her as she presses the button for the floor she and the prince had come off of.  The doors mercifully close, letting Clary breathe a very shaky sigh of relief.  She holds back her tears, refusing to sob in this castle; she tears off her high heels and the elevator dings, the doors opening onto the hall beside the bridge.  Shoes in hand, she dashes across the bridge and she can hear Sterling lopping after her.  Tearing down the prince’s hall, she shoulders open the door to his apartment, letting Sterling slip in before entering herself and slamming the door behind her.

Blowing out a shuddery breath, she walks over to the balcony, pulling open the French doors and stepping out onto the sun warmed stone.  She’d dropped her heels in the entryway earlier so the stone’s warmth seeps into the bottom of her feet.  The city below bustles with activity and she wishes she was down there instead of stuck inside an ivory tower with a lusty prince and his royal family that hates her.  Maybe the queen didn’t mean to hurt her, maybe she was merely curious.  But the prince knew and the prince didn’t stop her.  Why didn’t he stop her?  She supposes she has to fight her own battles, despite how painful they are and how angry they make her.

She sinks down to her knees, her dress riding up her legs as she settles on the stone of the balcony.  Sterling comes over and nudges her arm with his nose, begging for attention or trying to give comfort, sensing her distress.  She shouldn’t have to share her life with these people.  Why are they interested anyway?  The prince has her papers, which is everything they need to know about her past, they don’t need to go digging in her traumatic childhood and years of insufferably embarrassing Escort training.

But the queen’s comment begs the question.  Why did her parents leave her?  Why did they abandon their daughter in a rundown apartment complex?  Was she not good enough?  Did she do something as a child that made them give her away?  Why didn’t they just drop her at the foster house instead of leaving her alone, probably to die?  Did they not have enough money to support a child?  Or was she a mistake?

Sterling gives up trying to get her attention and lays down beside her, putting his head in her lap as she stares blankly at the forest and city beyond, deep in thought of why she was left while other memories surface to rub the fact in.  If her parents hadn’t left her, she wouldn’t have been in the foster system, wouldn’t have wanted to run away, wouldn’t have lived on the streets, wouldn’t have caught Valentine’s eye, wouldn’t have become an Escort.  But then she wouldn’t be here in this beautiful country, Idris.  She barely remembers her lengthy history lessons that were given at Night’s House, paling in comparison to Erin’s stories, but she remembers the lesson about Idris.  The ruling family has been the Morgensterns ever since the country was founded through war between France and Germany.  The last king, she can’t remember his name, but he had one son with his first wife, which would be Jonathan.  Then if she can remember, the king withdrew from ruling and gave the throne, and his second wife, to the duke.  Lucian, the king she saw in the breakfast room, the redheaded queen, Jocelyn must have been the last king’s second wife.  She doesn’t think she had any children with the last king, which is why the prince said ‘I am not your son.’

But the line of succession for Idris was rather complex and confusing to her.  It’s something like if the king abdicates the throne it goes to the next eldest brother and the Heir remains the first king’s son, or maybe it was it goes to the new king’s first son or maybe it was his daughter.  Then for a second wife, it gets all confusing, the throne of the queen isn’t really hers or she’s only the princess consort.  Or is the throne of the queen really hers but what about the Heir?  God, her brain hurts, she’s made it hurt on purpose to distract herself.  She wants it to hurt.  It’s better than her heart.

Idris is one of the only remaining countries holding any natural forest and wild animals aside from Russia, Africa and Australia.  There was an attempted invasion about thirty years ago in search of resources by Germany but the Idrian military was too strong and pushed them out.  She can’t really remember anything past that, there was something about a betrothal to ensure no further attacks but she can’t remember.  She brings her knees up to her chest, resting her forehead on them.  Sterling’s placed his head under her legs now, in the little cave she’s created with her legs and she can see him through the space she left between her thighs.

Her childhood flashes across her vision, pain, hunger, running, hiding.  Then Valentine and Night’s House.  What she disliked most about the Escort training was not what the men would do to her once they bought her but how some men liked bondage, the dominant and submissive and the Escort had to play whichever role the patron desired.  She never liked the idea of being restrained, tied to a bedpost, or how some men blinded the Escorts with silks and ties to frustrate them, not allowing them to see or hear where the patron were on their bodies and left the Escort quivering in anticipation.  The whole practice never appealed to her.

She lifts her head as she hears the door in the entry way open and close, but the curtains are drawn on the balcony doors so the prince will not find her unless he looks.  She places her forehead back on her knees, wanting to remain quiet and hidden but she knows if the prince calls for her she will have to go.  She doesn’t want to experience the well-known, powerful shock she would receive from the chip in her wrist if she disobeys.

The balcony doors fall open behind her, letting cool air drift out and fall over her back.  She lifts her head and lies down on her back, staring up at the prince standing in the door way, looking down at her.  She smiles up at him, making sure and taking care to wipe her depressing and traumatic thoughts from her face.  It is not the prince’s problem and she doesn’t want to make it his.  “My prince,” she says by way of greeting.

His face has not changed from the dining room and it pains her to look at his handsome face with so much _feeling_ for her.  She is only his Escort, nothing more and it does not feel right to hold the apology of a prince, especially an Heir and especially the Heir to Idris.  She cannot look away though, it will draw more attention to her own feelings.  She’s been trained to project outward, project pleasure to her patron, not draw attention to what is in her.

“My little flower?” he says with a cocked eyebrow.  “Is there something I can do to relieve your pain?” he asks, lowering himself to his knees and bracing his hands on either side of her head so she looks up at him with his face upside down to her.  Clary’s chest twists in defeat as he asks this question of her.  He should not be asking to relieve her pain.  It is her responsibility and obligation to relieve his.

She reaches her hands up and cups his face, stroking her thumbs over his jaw line.  “My prince,” she whispers scornfully, reaching her hand up his abdomen and stroking the bulge in his pants.  “That is improper of you,” she says with a small smile.  “The question is: is there anything _I_ can do to relieve _your_ pain?”

He sucks in a breath, smiling slyly and grasping her wrist to draw it up to his mouth, brushing his lips over her knuckles.  “I meant what I said,” he says, placing her hand over her stomach then moving his own back to brush over her cheek.  “Do not question me,” he says, furrowing his pale blond eyebrows with a small quirk to his lips.  He lowers his head and she thinks he might steal her first kiss on the sunlit balcony but he only brush his velvet lips along her cheekbone.  “Tell me what you want _me_ to do to _you_.  I’m sure you do not lack in the knowledge of what I could do.”

Her eyes flutter shut and her breasts swell with an unknown anticipation at the prince’s feather light touch.  No, she really doesn’t lack knowledge of all the things a man can do to a woman.  A man’s hands can roam a woman’s bare skin, pressing and caressing so many spots and eliciting so many hormones.  She reaches her free hand up into his pale curls, tangling her fingers in his silken strands.

“My prince,” she whispers, her chest heaving.  Suddenly Sterling is on his feet, rushing for the entry way door, barking and scratching at the wood.  Clary opens her eyes, finding the prince’s nose still brushing her neck, completely ignorant to his dog.  Sterling continues scratching at the wood, whining and barking.  Clary sits up slowly, her hand still trailing the prince’s skin as she turns back to the dog, frowning.

“Leave him be,” the prince whispers, kneeling behind her but Sterling does not stop barking.

“Please,” Clary whispers, instinct and curiosity taking over.  “I’ll only be a minute.”

The prince sighs and pulls back from her neck, helping her stand.  “One minute,” he says, letting her rush to the door, cracking it open but Sterling pushes it open all the way, rushing out into the hall.  She moves to follow him but is frozen to the spot as she sees who stands in the hallway.  A tall, dark man, face hooded and eyes unseen.  She would not have seen him if not for Sterling, crouched low, fangs bared and hackles raised, low growls emitting from his throat.

The shadow man looks up, soulless white eyes staring her down as he raises a gun.  She cannot move, cannot speak as she hears the safety click and he aims at her.  Time seems to slow as the thing’s finger moves to the trigger and several things happen at once.  Instinct, old and long repressed moves her hand to the Glock in her waist band.  But she now longer wears a gun.  Not for a long time.  She hears a low hiss permeating the air.  The prince arrives at the door to the hall, sees the man and shouts for guards.  Sterling leaps at the shadow on the prince’s command just as it fires and she thinks she screams.  She can see the bullet traveling towards her in slow motion, sees the course it will take and moves just enough for it to miss her heart.  She can feel the fire shooting up her arm as the bullet pierces her arm just as castle guards appear and descend upon the already bloody corpse of the shooter beneath Sterling’s bloodied mouth.

She sees them pull the dog off the man but all that is left is a bloody, empty robe, no body.  She can feel the blood soaking through the fingers that she hasn’t realized are clutching her arm.  Everything still moves slowly, Sterling backing away with low growls, his maw dripping blood; the prince rushing over to her with frantic, angry eyes as catches her falling body and pries her hand away from her arm; the guards shouting at each other to secure the rest of the Royals; and all the while she can’t stop staring at the empty robes, mouth slightly open, those soulless white eyes boring into her, burned into her mind.  Why would someone try to kill her?  She’s an Escort.  Or were they here for the prince?  Or the Queen?  Any assassin could have mistaken her for the queen, what with her rare red hair.  The assassin could have been given a description and red hair was the defining factor.  But still, had he wandered down the wrong hall?  This is the prince’s hall.

What was that thing?  It had blended almost seamlessly with the shadows and no one has empty, _completely white_ eyes.  No one.  Why had it shot her?  Everything snaps back into regular time, the guards shouting, the prince yelling for a doctor, but most of all Sterling’s low growls still emanating through the hall even though the shadow man has disappeared.  A cold shiver runs down her spine.  She could have been killed.  Worse, one of the Royals could have been killed.  But looking at the prince now, flaming black eyes alight with anger and concern, he doesn’t seem to care he could have been the one shot as he waves off the guards like gnats and tugs the suddenly appeared doctor through the cluster of guards.  They now crowd the prince into his apartment, locking everything down, shutting windows, locking doors, checking vents, talking through cell phones to make sure the rest of the Royals are safe. 

The prince doesn’t care he’s being sealed in his own room, only pulls her numbly to the couch and forces her frozen limbs to bend as she sits down.  The doctor begins taking medical supplies out of his case.  Sterling paces back and forth in front of the couch, his hackles still raised, his mouth eerily bloody, looking like a deadly wolf as he slinks back and forth in front of Clary, almost protectively.  The prince sits beside her, cradling her head to his chest and holding her still as she screams, just realizing that pain is lancing through her shoulder into her arm as the doctor pulls the bullet out.

She grits her teeth as another scream pierces the air when the doctor finally yanks the bullet out, stimulating a flow of blood to trickle down her arm.  She turns her face into the prince’s shoulder, holding back tears of pain as the doctor wraps her shoulder is layers of bandages, healing salves and gauze.  She hasn’t been in this much pain since she was ten.  Sweat beads her brow as pain laces her skin and mind.  The prince tries to sooth her by stroking her red hair and pulling her into his lap, cradling her against him as the doctor takes out a long needle and fills it with a greenish liquid.

Clary withdraws from the doctor at the sight of the needle.  He’s released her arm and she curls up against the prince, trembling with trepidation.  No more needles, no more needles. She’s frozen and curled in on herself, her ears ringing and her eyes squeezed shut as she stares into the white eyes, staring her down like he meant to shoot _her_ , like he knew what he was doing.  She can’t hear anything else except for her screams, the gunshot and Sterling’s growls.  She’s vaguely aware of the doctor and the prince trying to get her to extend her arm again for the needle and she remembers not two days ago another, a much larger needle being plunged into her left wrist, injecting her chip and sealing her fate as an Escort.

She screams horribly, thrashing and trying to bolt.  No more needles.  But the prince tackles her, securing his arms around her waist.  He drags her back to the doctor and the couch, thrashing the whole time.  She thinks the prince manages to force her arm out far enough in her struggle to allow the doctor to stick the needle in the crook of her elbow, pressing the plunger down and forcing the cool greenish liquid into her veins.  All of her pain is gone immediately and she falls limp against the prince, growing drowsy and disjointed as the liquid spreads through her veins.  She can’t hear the guards anymore.  She can’t hear the prince whispering to her as he gathers her against his body and circles his legs around her as he pulls a blanket off the back of the couch and wrapping her in it.  She can’t hear Sterling pacing back and forth or the doctor murmuring about a pain killer injection making her very incoherent, or the prince whispering soothing words against her skin, she only hears the gunshot.  Echoing in her head over and over; her question repeated over and over.

_Why did he shoot me?  Why did he shoot me?  Why did he shoot me?_

The ringing in her ears finally fades, the gunshot reduced to a dull throb in the back of her mind and she’s aware of the guard presence in the room.  Two at the balcony, two at the door, two on either side of the couch the prince cradles her on.  Sterling still paces back and forth in front of the couch, growling at even the guards if they come too close.  Clary’s thoughts seem very jumbled to her as she clutches the prince’s button up shirt, her nose pressed against his chest as he runs his fingers through her red curls.

She can’t think straight as she lifts her head to look at the prince who smiles warmly at her, still clutching her body to his.  Bitterness rises in spite of herself.  He only cares because he almost lost an eleven million dollar investment, that’s all.  He doesn’t actually care for her, she’s only here for his pleasure and the sooner she learns that the easier the rest of her life will be.  She frowns at the prince and he only hiccups a small laugh, running his thumb over her lips.

She can’t remember what happened.  Why are guards here?  Why is Sterling bloody?  Why is the prince holding her on the couch?  And why the hell does her arm hurt?  “What happened?” she slurs, annoyed to find her voice unclear.

“You’ll remember later, my sweet,” the prince says, tracing her bottom lip with his thumb.  “Just go to sleep and I’ll explain when you wake up.”  Clary’s eyes are drooping and she feels rather tired but something feels wrong as she nods tiredly and lays her head back against the prince’s chest, tucking her nose into the curve of his neck.  The darkness pulls at her, she’ll remember later.

She wakes up nestled against something warm and smelling of darkness and spices.  She groans, shifting against the warmth and slowly prying open her eyes.  She’s vaguely aware of her arm throbbing, she looks down at it to see bandages wrapped around her shoulder.  She remembers, the thing, the shot, the white eyes.  She fell asleep with the prince holding her.  Why did he bother holding her?  It’s just a bullet hole.  Okay, maybe it’s slightly more serious than Clary wants it to be but why is he still holding her?

She lifts her head, surprised that the only pain she feels is a slight throb in her arm.  Sterling sleeps in front of the couch on the floor, his fur shiny and sleek, no trace of blood left on him.  She turns her face to find the prince asleep, his head leaning against the back of the couch and his arms securely wrapped around her waist.  She rubs her eyes, looking around at the security guards, standing silent and vigil as their prince sleeps.  She squints at the late evening light spilling in onto the tile floor then at her prince, clutching her waist and holding her to his chest.

She reaches down to the prince’s laced fingers, quietly, slowly pulling them apart and sliding her legs off the couch.  She has to admit, her prince is a very heavy sleeper; she brushes a stray curl of pale blond hair back from his forehead.  Looking up at the emotionless security guards, she scrunches her nose and slips past the sleeping wolfhound at the foot of the couch back to the bedrooms.

She’d moved her duffel bag into the prince’s room earlier and she walks in to find the messy bed from earlier made and her bag empty, the closet left slightly open to indicate that her belongings have been hung.  She opens the closet door all the way to find a full walk in with room to spare.  There’s a little couch in the middle of the room, surrounded by circular hanging racks hung with rows and rows of suits and slacks, t-shirts and designer jeans, sweatpants and sweatshirts, shorts and tank tops, really it goes on and on and on but one section has been cleared out in anticipation for the shopping trip the prince had talked about in the truck.  The three dresses she brought with her, the dorm shirts and her sleep shorts hang in the empty section, pitifully alone.

Clary rolls her eyes at the excess the prince has at his disposal as she slips back out into the bedroom, finding her book and bathroom products still tucked inside her duffel.  She supposes she’ll go put them away, if only to distract herself from the gunshot still echoing in her head.  In the bathroom she finds the opposite vanity cabinets empty for her use and she fills the mirrored shelves with her things.  Her arm twinges slightly but she ignores it, finishing putting her things away.  Her eyes flicker to the movement in her mirror, the prince sliding into the bathroom.  Stalking up behind her with a sleepy look on his face with his sleep mussed hair and wrinkled button up shirt, he looks devilishly handsome without trying.  She’s stretching up to the top shelf to put her hair brush away when the prince snatches the brush out of her hand and places it on the shelf for her.  His hand then settles on her upper arm, the bandaged one.

“You really shouldn’t be using this arm,” he murmurs, pushing her arm down and holding it against her body.  She looks at the prince in the mirror, finding his sleepy smile lowering itself to her shoulder where he sets his chin.

“What should I be doing with it then?” Clary asks, lacing her fingers with the ones holding her arm to her body.  She meets his beautiful black eyes in the mirror that are currently wandering her body.  When the prince doesn’t respond she moves her free hand to the side zipper of her dress, pulling it down.  His black eyes widen.

“What… are you doing?” the prince asks, his hand automatically racing to the strip of bare skin on her hip and begins tracing circles there.

“I’m taking a shower.  Care to join me?” she asks with an eyebrow raise and brushes his hands off of her so she can step away to shrug off her dress.  The prince’s eyes drop down to her breasts, held in a black satin bra, then fall down her stomach to what is hidden beneath her panties.  He seems awe struck, so she decides to help him.  She steps up to him and pops the first button on his shirt.  Her eyes flick up to his to see his reaction.  He’s still staring at her breasts, though they are nothing out of the ordinary.  She looks back to his buttons and pops another one open, looking back up to him.

His eyes have moved to her arm, where the bandage lies and a flower of red is beginning to bloom.  His eyes close and his hands come up to gently wrap around her wrists, stopping her from unbuttoning anymore.  “As much as I would love to…” He bites his lip, his eyes still closed in exasperation and she can feel his groin tightening.  He opens his eyes and looks down at her big, green doe eyes.  As much as she was unwilling to share a bed with him earlier, she prefers that to the vision of the white eyed shadow burned in her head, or the hiss that came from it, or the gunshot that pierced her arm.  Maybe letting the prince bed her will distract her from the disturbing images and sounds, maybe the pain of losing her virginity and the pleasure coming afterward will distract her.

“I need to call the doctor to replace your bandages,” he says hoarsely, sliding his arms around her waist despite his words, drawing her closer, holding her to his partially exposed torso.  He buries his face in her curls, breathing slowly and deeply.

“My prince?” Clary asks after five minutes of silence and stillness, the prince holding her closely, like a lifeline.  She reaches up and runs her hands along the back of his neck.

“I need to keep you safe.  You’re my responsibility and you almost died,” he whispers, shaking his head slowly and brushing her neck with his nose. 

“I was only shot in the arm,” Clary says quietly, tracing her fingers along the nape of his neck where his pale blond hair curls.  His arms tighten around her possessively, protecting her with his own body, and Clary wants to recoil from the claim he’s placing over her.  Disgust coils under her breasts.  _You’re my responsibility._   She is no one’s responsibility; she raised herself on her own.  She hasn’t relied on anyone for anything her entire life and she isn’t about to start relying on some spoiled prince to take care of her.  She pulls back from the prince, gently brushing off his arms from around her and bowing her head.  “I’ll just go shower off then.  Go call the doctor if you want,” she says quietly, turning to the shower before stepping in and turning on the shower head.  The hot water sprays against the stone wall as she unclasps her bra and takes off her panties, flinging them over the top of the glass door.

She carefully unwraps her bandages and finds a thin stream of blood flowing from her bullet wound.  She purses her lips as the gunshot goes off in her head again, the hiss sounding before the shot.  Was the shadow trying to say something?  Or did it just hiss in triumph as it pulled the trigger?  She quickly washes the blood splatters on her body away and scrubs her hair, tying it up afterward.  She wonders if sex will be pleasurable for her.  If having a man thrusting in and out of her body while he ravages her neck and mouth will be a good experience for her.  Sex is supposed to produce a pleasure hormone yes, but the ways a man can thrust into a woman can be anything but. 

Will this prince be violent?  Taking his own pleasure and leaving her to suffer through her pain alone in bed afterward or will he be passionate and fiery and enjoyable or soft and pathetic?  Will he not give her any pleasure he takes for himself?  She brushes away the last one, from what she’s seen of his body, his personality, his power, there is absolutely no way for the prince to be anything less than powerful.  She lets these thoughts plague her mind, digging up worry and anxiety, completely preferring it over the eerie gunshot and shadow in the hall.

She steps out of the shower, wrapping a towel around her chest.  She gasps as she feels an arm encircle her waist, pulling her mostly naked body back against a firm, _very_ hard one.  The prince fingers her upper arm, around her bullet wound that still bleeds slightly.  “I told you not to be using this arm,” he whispers in her ear.

“How else was I supposed to shower?” Clary asks, her voice soft and quiet, her head hung low as she feels the prince’s warmth seep into her.  His hands run down her toweled body and his fingers brush her thighs.

“I could think of a few ways,” he murmurs into her neck.  His hands round the front of her thighs and inch closer to her core.  She arches her back against him, leaning her head back against his shoulder.  “But right now, you need to go get bandaged again.”  He slides his hands up her thighs, her torso and takes her small hands, lacing his fingers through hers and turning her around.  He sees her disturbed, solemn expression and purses his lips.  He drops her hands and cups her face with his large, callused hands, brushing his thumbs over her cheekbones.  “Are you alright?”

Clary immediately wipes her face of emotion.  It isn’t the prince’s problem; she doesn’t want to make it his problem.  She smiles warmly, injecting as much normalcy as can be expected from someone who was just shot.  “I’m fine,” she says, removing his hands from her cheeks and slipping out into the hall, back to the prince’s bedroom.  She quickly pulls on a dorm shirt and sleep shorts over her bra and panties.  She avoids the prince’s gaze as she walks out to the living room, where the guards still stand vigil at the balcony and the doors.  She sees the doctor standing in the entryway and the prince beckons him over.  Clary stands uncomfortably as the doctor applies healing salves and layers of bandages.

The prince stands beside her, watching her with a droll expression and Clary, starting to squirm, flashes a sexy smile at him.  He immediately loosens and smiles back, his eyes travel around her body and she settles back into some comfort, the familiar wandering gaze of a man caressing her skin.  The doctor pulls out another needle filled with the green liquid from earlier.  He sticks the needle in her arm, pressing the plunger and the pain disappears.  “Is that all?” she asks sweetly of the doctor.  The young doctor nods and Clary turns to the prince, still watching her.  She rises on her toes and kisses his cheek.  “I’m going to bed,” she whispers.  _Before I pass out again._   “If that’s all right with your Highness?”  She wanted to watch the sunset again but it’s already dark outside, then the stars, but after the assassination attempt this morning, she doesn’t think anyone is allowed in or out of the castle.

He fits his hands to her hips, squeezing once and kissing her cheek like she did him.  He holds her for a moment, setting his chin on her shoulder.  “Yes.  I’ll be in later.  Goodnight, my sweet.”  He lets her go and she slips off to the bedrooms but she pauses in the hall as she hears the prince and the doctor talking.  She’s curious as to what they’re saying.  She isn’t meaning to be nosy or secretive, she just likes to hear the prince’s deep voice.  She wants to know how he interacts with other people when she isn’t around.

“The pain medicine doubles as a regenerative,” she hears the doctor say.  “Therefore the body’s healing processes are sped up and it will make her very drowsy like you saw this morning.  I would refrain from any… begging your pardon for my bluntness, sexual activities until tomorrow night.  She should be completely healed by then.”

“Yes, thank you.  You may go,” he says and she can hear something in his voice that makes her want to hold him to her chest and stroke her fingers through his hair.  She hears the doctor leave.  “How fares the queen?” she hears the prince ask of what she assumes a security guard, very formally.

“Well; you are the only member of the royal family on whom an attempt was made your Highness.”

She hears an odd silence stretch out and she wonders why he hasn’t come down the hall to bed when he speaks again.  “Do you know how the assassin got in?”

“No, your Highness.  There was no trace of break in or bribe throughout our systems.”

“Do you know who the assassin was intentionally going after?  The queen perhaps?  He could have mistaken Clarissa for the queen with her fire kissed hair.”  Something tingles in her stomach as he hears him call her ‘fire kissed.’  Something about it is sentimental, personal and suddenly she can see a vivid image of the prince braced above her, his nose buried in her red hair and his man hood buried _deep_ inside her, pleasuring her as he whispers: _My fire kissed angel.  Come for me._

She almost gasps at how vivid it is but a spike of pleasure shoots through her and she leans her head back against the wall.  “We know nothing of the assassin’s intentions but we assume that seeing as he came in the direction of your chambers, he was after you.  You are the Heir, your Highness.”

“Mm, yes.  Is the equestrian tournament still on for tomorrow?”

“No, your Highness.  The court and security has moved it back, deeming it unsafe until we can determine your Highness and your Highness’s family are safe.”

A short silence follows and she can feel the prince deliberating something.  “Make sure Clarissa is included in the protection detail.  She will eventually become my wife after all.”

“Yes, your Highness.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, your Highness.”

Clary barely makes it to the bedroom as the prince rounds the corner into the hall.  She stands at the edge of the bed, removing her bra and shorts as the prince comes in.  She drops the bra on the floor beside the bed like she did not notice the prince’s presence and climbs into bed, drawing the covers up around her face.  His news shouldn’t have been a surprise.  Most Escorts are taken on as permanent wives, husbands or mistresses of the Royals they are bought by.  She knew the moment she was bought, before that even, that she would become someone’s wife or whore.  The preoccupying thought then was what kind of a person she would be forced to marry.  She still hasn’t decided if she likes the prince at all even.  He’s arrogant, dark, possessive, overzealous, wildly excessive and over confident.  But it felt odd, peculiar, to have the word’s _my wife_ come out of the prince’s mouth.  He doesn’t look like the man who would have a wife.

He looks wild and free and untethered, master womanizer, total bachelor, yet he said those words like it was fact.  Like she was always the one he was going to marry, the woman who would sleep with him, have sex with him, live with him, eventually rule with him.  Those were all givens of this job but that would also mean having to bear his children for him.  She shivers at the thought of being weighed down by a second life force, sucking on her own.  It’s her old instincts from living on the streets ingrained into her head; she has to be light, free, fast, all to survive but she can’t imagine herself with a bulging belly.  Sitting around all day, unable to do anything more than walk to the bathroom to pee thirty seven times a day.

She feels the prince slide into bed beside her and she resists the urge to roll away from him but neither does she roll towards him.  She feigns sleep, her body buried under the thick covers, motionless until the prince gently loops his arm around her waist and slowly pulls her towards him.  She keeps her eyes closed, her breathing steady, as he tucks away a curl behind her ear.  He traces light circles over her cheek, moving lower to her exposed throat.

He finally makes it to her shoulder, where her bandage rests over her bullet wound.  He stops his hand, nothing but silence for a few minutes before he sighs.  She pretends to wake up, finding it difficult as the drug starts to take effect.  She cracks her eyes open, rolling over on her good side, stretching her arm over the prince’s hip.  He’s on his side, his head propped up on his hand

“Is something wrong, my prince?” she asks, turning her head to find his black eyes in the dark.  She can’t see the expression on his shadow casted features but she feels his uneasiness that he’s trying to hide.

“No, little flower.  Just go back to sleep,” he whispers.

She closes her eyes, still facing the prince, but she does not go back to sleep.  “Are you sure,” she whispers.  “I’m here if you need to talk to someone you know.”

“I know… I know little one.  But you need to sleep now.  We can talk tomorrow,” he says, drawing a finger across her bare chest.  She shivers, her breasts swelling as she feels his fingers dip lower into the collar of her shirt.

“Didn’t you want to do everything to me tonight?” she whispers.

“Sh,” he says, his thumb tracing over her bottom lip.  “It can wait.”  She feels him lean in, his lips ghosting over her skin beside her ear.  “Go to sleep, I’ll be here in the morning.”

Something about what he just said comforts her.  Maybe it’s because she’s still scared of what happened this morning or that the hiss still echoes in the back of her mind quietly, raising the hairs on the back of her neck but knowing the prince will be here, watching over her eases the fear.  She resents the idea of anyone having to protect her but after seeing that thing’s white eyes… She guesses she can tolerate having a strong, _very_ possessive man holding her close to his body while seven or eight security guards watch the prince’s quarters and who knows how many others guarding the castle itself.

He knew what to say even when she hasn’t betrayed any of her thoughts.  It strikes her oddly how he knew what to say but even more, why he said it.  He can’t actually care, she’s only here to provide pleasure and apparently bear his children.  She’s property, property that the prince intends to keep to himself.  She pushes away the disdainful thoughts and lets herself sleep, cradled in the prince’s arms, her head resting against his shoulder.


	3. Soul's Threats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We train them and most do as their told.”  
> “And those who don’t?” she asks, lifting her head and meeting the prince’s eyes.  
> “We set them free.”

Clary sits up gasping, her shoulder throbbing and a sound like a never ending whistle flying through her head.  She quells the scream building in her throat as she looks around in the dark.  She feels the prince beside her, still sleeping peacefully.  The whistle in her head turns into a hiss, the hiss from the hall, from the gunshot.

Why did that _thing_ shoot _her?_ She’s only an Escort.  She runs a hand over her face and through her red curls that fall haphazardly around her.  She’s not special, an orphan.  Laying back against the pillows, she keeps her hands tangled in her hair, holding it back from her face to let the cool air touch her sweaty face.

It was just a mistake, the bullet was meant for one of the royals, she just got in the way.  She lets her arms fall to the sides, pulling the covers up to her chin as the panic drains away, a resolve forming in her head.  She just got in the way, the assassin had to kill the Royals by whatever means necessary, including collateral damage.  She blows out a breath, becoming all too aware of the heartbeat of her prince.

At first it’s slow, steady, like a drum, lulling her back to sleep but then it starts beating faster and faster; his ivory hair seems to glow hectically as he tosses his head back and forth.  Clary sits up in concern, planning to slide out of bed to go get the security guards or the medic but the prince sits up suddenly with a stifled shout.  She can see sweat beaded on his forehead in the dim light leaking from the hallway.

She reaches for him, running a hand down his bare bicep, feeling the raw power ripple through his skin as his other hand shoots out and closes around her wrist.  She gasps and the prince loosens his grip, seemingly remembering who is sharing his bed.

“Your Highness,” she says quietly, running her fingers over his skin and she feels him shiver.  “Are you all right?”  She hears him let out a shuddery breath as he releases her wrist.  She feels his hand move to her cheek, brushing two fingers over the flushed skin.

“How’s your shoulder?” he asks, tracing a small circle over her cheek.

“Better,” she lies even as it throbs slightly.

He throws back the covers, moving his hand away from her cheek.  “Come here,” he says, spreading his legs for her to sit between.  She obediently crawls into his lap, unfolding her legs and draping them over his thighs.  She clenches her nether regions as she bares them to her patron, just as she was trained to do.  Give the patron as many opportunities to take her as possible.

He slides his arms around her waist and crushes her body to him in a hot embrace.  Her ear is pressed against his chest, touching the sweaty skin and she can hear his heartbeat.  It slows significantly as she loops her arms around his waist.  His fingers play with her curls.  She breathes in the scent of dark spices and royalty, the smell of over abounding wealth and it almost makes her gag but she forces herself to hold him.  He calms noticeably, making her core clench as she’s pulled closer to him.

“My prince?” she asks, dreading the question she’s all but forced to ask.  Rule 7: Times of distress call for times of pleasure.  And the prince is clearly in distress.  “Do you wish for me to comfort you?”  She scoots forward and a shiver rips through her as she feels his hardness covered with boxers press against her womanhood, held safe by a mere strip of cotton.

His hands slide down her waist to her butt, bare except for panties.  He cups her bottom, pulling her closer.  “I do wish it,” he says, more groans than speaks.  Clary’s heart drops into her stomach as she nuzzles up to him, burying her nose against his neck and opening her lips to slide them against his throat.  He squeezes her tighter, making her squeak quietly when she has to readjust and rise up on her knees, picking her lips up from his neck and licking her way to his ear.  She forces herself to press her most private part against his stomach as he leans his head back, letting her kiss up his jaw.

One hand creeps up from her behind into her hair.  He pulls it softly, tugging her head back to bare her neck.  She gasps as she feels his lips press to her collarbone, pressing her core against him.  His lips skim her throat as her body shakes with anticipation, fear, and a tiny spark of pleasure just behind her naval.  He stops just under her chin, her head tilted back, her body still propped on her knees and the prince has to lean up and stretch just to reach her jaw.

“But, my love, I will only accept your comfort if I know you have yours,” he whispers against her skin.  She stills for a moment, every fiber of her body telling her to lie to him while all her training says he will only be angry if he finds out; she’s not supposed to lie to him.  Her breath hitches as she threads her fingers in his ivory hair.  She stares up at the ceiling in anguish, expecting for the prince to continue without her answer.

He tugs her hair gently, nipping at her skin.  She shivers as his grip tightens.  “I would like to know your answer before I continue, little one,” he whispers.

Clary sighs, closing her eyes to engulf herself in complete darkness once again.  “My prince.”  She chokes on a quiet laugh.  “My dear, sweet prince.  If I told you of every discomfort that ailed me, I’m afraid you would never fuck me if you continue to be as chivalrous as you have.”

She gasps as he surges up and presses her back into the mattress.  He gazes down at her with midnight eyes, his mouth inches from hers.  “But I want to know your every discomfort,” he whispers.  “I want to know all of them so that I can turn your discomfort to pleasure.  I want all your discomfort washed away and subsumed by the pleasure I and I alone give you.”  He dips his head to her ear and she unconsciously arches up into him.  “When I make you come for me, I want the only thing on your mind to be my throbbing shaft in your soft, virginal wetness.  Do you understand?  I want to know all your troubles so I can take them away.”  He licks her throat.  “So please, my dear, innocent flower, won’t you tell me of your troubles?”

Clary’s body hums under the prince’s as he presses his lips to her throat, trailing to her jaw.  She whimpers in helplessness, lacing her fingers through his silky hair.  His lips move slowly over her skin, threading warmth through her body and pooling in her pelvis.  His body is flush with hers from her breasts to her thighs and she can feel his hardness pressed right where she aches.

“I’m afraid of the pain,” she breathes, letting her words pour out before damming the rest to avoid revealing what truly lies in her mind.  “I’m afraid you’ll hurt me.”

She tightens her fingers in anticipation of the prince’s scolding words to come against her irrational fear but he only presses his shaft harder against her core, making her arch up again.

“I’d never hurt you, little one,” he whispers vehemently.  “When I take you, it will be gentle and pleasurable for us both.  As I slide myself into you, it will be slow, so that you can feel every lick of pleasure I will draw from you.”

Clary shudders at his words, wanting and not wanting to shove him away.  His hot breath fans her neck and his strong arms surround her as he braces himself on the bed.  She can feel his defined abdomen pressed against her stomach and she feels very _soft_ compared to this prince’s toned, muscled, powerful body.  She feels him draw his mouth away from her neck, leaving behind a cold spot and she wishes he would cover it again with his hot lips.

His face hovers millimeters from her own, his nose just brushing hers.  She can feel his penetrating gaze practically incinerating her shirt before it moves back to her eyes.  He moves upward, making her gasp as he rubs his manhood against her.  His eyes drop to her lips.  Her cheeks flush.

“I’ll have to wait till tonight, little one, but I do not think I can wait to taste your lips.”  His eyes are hungry and lustful.  “May I take my first liberty?”

Clary bites her lips instinctually and she feels him harden, his eyes still locked onto her lips.  What will a kiss feel like?  Will she like it?  Will it be rough and gross or soft and meaningful?  Who is she kidding?  Nothing in this life is ever going to _mean_ anything.  She’s a glorified whore.

“I am but your humble servant, my prince.  Take from me what you wish,” she whispers, draping her arms around the back of his neck and parting her legs for him.  The prince’s gaze lights with a black fire, blazing through his eyes and down his body, tightening his boxers.  He leans down slowly, tilting his head and brushing his velvet lips against hers.  Clary shudders at his teasing touch, her breath catching in her throat before he finally presses his lips completely against hers.

She freezes at the sensation, living in the feel of a man’s lips moving against hers with care and skill.  He’s definitely kissed women before and he certainly isn’t a virgin.  He opens his lips on hers, teasing her lips apart with his tongue.  He slips inside her mouth, tasting her, as he takes a deep breath through his nose so he can continue his work without breaking his kiss.  His teeth close gently over her bottom lip and pull softly, making her moan quietly.  His lips move expertly against hers, like velvet sliding over silk, while she clenches her fingers in his hair.

He lays claim to her lips, just as he’ll lay claim to her body.  He’s made it plainly clear that she is his, no one else’s.  She moans as he takes one of her legs and drapes it over his hip as he presses forward, rubbing deliciously against her core.  Finally, after moving his lips over hers, endlessly drawing at them and making her delirious, he pulls back.  Clary’s breath comes raggedly as the prince traces her swollen lips with his thumb.

She closes her eyes to savor the sensation of the kiss he gave her.  That was better than anything she could have imagined.  The thought of a man’s tongue pressing against hers never appealed to her but the prince’s tongue… she shudders as the ghosting feeling of him touches her mouth.  The prince brushes his nose against hers and presses his still hot and swollen lips to her nose.

“How was your first kiss little one?” he asks, his lips gliding down to ghost over her cheekbones, his hips still moving deliriously slow against her core.  Something about being called little one makes her feel… odd.  She never had anyone to coddle her or grant her the luxuries of childhood.  She frowns as an image of two men pass over her memory, a redhead and a Scottish accent, but it’s gone in a moment.   She never had protection, but the prince’s words promise exactly that.  Protection.  He’s claiming her as his own charge to look after and it comforts her in a peculiar way to have the prince guarding her yet at the same time her mind is rebelling against itself, saying it doesn’t need protection from anyone.  Not now, not before, not ever.

All Clary can do is murmur something unintelligible as the prince’s mouth sweeps over her skin in a fiery path.  His rough hands slide up her body, his own braced on his knees.  His thumbs brush the sides of her unbound breasts, making her tingle with sensation.   His mouth stops at the collar of her low hanging dorm shirt, right at the tops of her breasts.  They swell with the proximity of the prince’s mouth and all the torturous things he can do to her with it.  He places a hot, open mouthed kiss on the tops of each breast before sliding his chest back up her body and capturing her lips in an upward motion, making her head tilt back as he claims her lips once more.  She moans at the sensation of his teeth tugging at her bottom lip as his tongue presses into her mouth.  Her hands come down to cup his face, one of them cupping the back of his neck, holding his lips to hers as he ravishes her mouth with a white hot passion to match his white blond hair.

She reluctantly allows him to pull back with a short, final kiss to her lips before he pulls her up from the mattress to sit in the midst of his legs once more.  She runs her hands up his bare chest, watching her fingers dip and curve over the hard muscle there before lifting her hot gaze to his equally so black eyes.  “Are you comforted now, my prince?” Clary asks breathlessly, biting her lip as she can still feel the prince’s own teeth tugging at it, drawing her deeper into some sort of drunken, pleasure ridden stupor.

He cracks a sly smile, running his hands up her back, under her shirt and over her warm back, sending shivers over her skin.  “Not as much as I will be tonight,” he whispers hoarsely and she can feel how tight he is, pressed against her and she is amazed at the prince’s patience in abstaining from taking her innocence this long.  She’s impressed.  She smiles up at him as her hand grazes over the fine dusting of silvery hair over his chest.

He leans down to kiss her again but she pulls back with a coy smile, provoking the prince to tug her closer to him, making their upper bodies almost completely flush.  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asks quietly as she leans closer to his lips, teasing him the way she was taught to, drawing out the tightness in his groin and the pleasure she knows he’s getting out of her keep away game.

“Why don’t you come and find out,” she whispers before pulling back and slipping off the bed, racing to the door in nothing but a dorm shirt and silk panties.  She hears the prince’s throaty growl of approval as he slides out of bed to pursue her.  She races down the hall, the lights blinking on as she goes, the prince’s bare feet padding down the hardwood floor to follow her.

She’s brushed thoughts aside of the gunshot that throbs lightly and the shadowed eyes.  She lets herself smile a little now as she rounds the couch.  The guards have retreated to the outside of the doors and balcony, leaving the suite empty except for the prince and herself.  Grasping the back of the couch, she watches the prince run out of the hallway.  Sterling is still passed out on the floor in front of the couch while Silver is curled on the cushions, obviously banished from the prince’s rooms in case they brushed against her wound and caused her pain.

They do not stir more than to raise their heads in acknowledgement of the prince and his play thing before going back to sleep.  She flashes a smile at the prince as he eyes her behind the couch, clearly enjoying her game.  He starts to round the couch and Clary moves to the other side, placing the couch between them so the prince is now behind it while she is in front.  Sterling sits mere inches from her feet.  He bites his lower lip and moves to his right, she moves to hers, keeping the same distance between them.

He takes another step and Clary takes another, letting a small giggle push through her throat as he rushes around the couch and Clary just manages to avoid his grasp.  She laughs at the frustration she can see in the prince’s face.  She’s completely capable of keeping away from the prince if she wanted to but her instincts, her training now ingrained in those instincts, forces her to let the prince’s arms encircle her waist and pull her back against him as he lunges forward.

She giggles as the prince buries his lips against her neck, drawing at the skin with his hot lips.  His hands fist in the shirt near the tops of her thighs, pulling her back against him, flush with his abdomen.  She sinks back into him, leaning her head against his shoulder as small bursts of pleasure roll through her.  Her laughs fade into gasps as the prince’s hands slide closer to her core, his fingertips sliding into her panties.  She settles her hands on his wrists, stopping his progress.

“You said you would wait,” Clary says in a sing song voice, turning her nose into his neck.

He growls in his throat.  “I said I would wait to take you, not to tease you.  Don’t you want me to sink my fingers into your wet heat and pleasure you, little one?”  Clary stifles a gasp at the image and sensation the prince has just presented her with but she digs her nails into his wrists.  She isn’t ready for that, she isn’t ready to have a man’s, especially this man’s, fingers in such an intimate place doing such intimate things to her when she knows she’s still only a bought toy; a very expensive toy but a toy all the same.

He makes a small surprised noise at her continued capture of his hands.  “Do you not want to play, minx?”  He loosens his grip slightly.  “Does your shoulder hurt?”  His hands take on a less sinister motion, more caring, as he slides them up to her hips, turning her slowly.  Clary puts a small, regretful smile on her face, even though she isn’t regretful, she just didn’t want him touching her there even though she’s going to have to let him; he did pay for it.

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly, only now noticing that the morning sun is just peaking over the Idrian Mountains. 

His face contorts with scorn.  “Don’t apologize.”  His face softens and he cups her face with his hands, brushing his thumbs over her cheekbones.  “You just need to tell me when you’re hurting.”  He leans down, brushing over her lips with his.  Her eyes flutter closed.  “And I’ll make it all better,” he whispers before taking her lips, brushing his tongue over her lips before she gives and opens her mouth to him.  His arms lock around her waist and pull her closer to him, making her squeak quietly but only slips her arms around his neck.

She rubs her thumbs over the nape of his neck, making him moan into her mouth.  Feeling satisfied with her work, making the prince bow to her prowess instead of the other way around, she pulls back.  The prince does not look pleased about this and leans down again to finish his work but she pulls back, increasing the prince’s frown.

“I’m hungry,” Clary whines, sounding slightly like a child.

“So am I,” he whispers hoarsely, staring at her lips like a starving animal.  “I’m starving.”

She hits him lightly on the shoulder with a shy smile.  “Not like that.”  She spins out of his grasp, drawing the attention of Sterling, who pulls himself off the floor, and follows her to the kitchenette.  Clary pulls out an apple from the fridge and bites into it.  The prince comes over to the opposite edge of the counter and circles his fingers around her wrist, holding her hand in place as he leans over the granite and takes a bite of her apple for himself.

“Hey!” she says, snatching the apple back as she watches the prince chew and swallow the piece of her apple.  The prince straightens, casting a hot gaze across her body.

“Hi,” he says before circling the counter and digging in the fridge himself.  He bends over, giving her an amazing view of his luscious rear.  Oh, and those muscled thighs flowing out from his boxers, it’s enough to make her shiver.  Enough then to make her blush in shame and turn away, biting into her apple again as she falls down onto the couch.

The prince settles next to her sometime later, smelling like spices and fruit.  She’s finished her apple, setting the core in the trash bin beside the couch.  The prince reaches across her to her opposite hip and pulls her across his body, settling her on his lap.  She splays her hands over his chest and she keeps her eyes pinned down on his abdomen, not wanting to meet his gaze; worse she isn’t allowed to meet his gaze.  It’s a sign of submission, one she was taught so early that she practically forgot it was a rule.  She hates it but all her training is so ingrained in her instincts that it’s hard to resist the urges of obeying, of submission.

She has a whole life of servitude ahead of her anyway, she has to get used to it.  So she keeps her head bowed and body relaxed.  The prince’s hands slide up her body, caressing it with his masculine heat.  Her breasts swell in anticipation as his thumbs graze the sides then continue up to her neck, cupping the back of her head and pulling her down so their foreheads touch.

“Why don’t you look at me?” he asks quietly, skimming his thumb back and forth over the nape of her neck.  His mouth is inches from hers, blowing hot breath against her face.  She closes her eyes and moves to bury her nose in his neck, sliding her hands around to his back.

“It’s a sign of submission,” she murmurs, her cheeks flaring red in shame.  “I’m not supposed to look my patron in the eye.  Unless of course my patron gives me express permission to do so.”  It makes her gut twist to admit this, but she does not let her body or face betray any of the shame within her.  The only hint is her rose pink cheeks flaming with blush, which is why she is hiding her face in his lovely, fruit and spice scented neck.

“Well I think—”

Clary cuts him off with a fierce kiss before he can delve into the details of her past and the House she was raised in.  She presses into him, sliding her hands under his boxer’s hem, slipping them around and moving them to his manhood.  He moans deeply as she closes her hands around him.

“Oh Angel,” he groans against her lips as she begins to stroke him.  Her hands masterfully wrap around him, using her soft hands to manipulate his hormones to cloud his mind as she kisses him blind.  “You taste like apples,” he pants, his own hands slipping under her shirt and into her panties, cupping her rear to press her closer to him as she sheathes him with her hands.

“And you of spices, your Highness,” she whispers against his lips as she presses her tongue into his mouth, reneging her admittance of submission to take over the prince’s body and block out the sometimes painful and always shameful lessons experienced in the Night’s House.  The painful life she lived before that.  He has to pull back from the kiss to suck in deep breaths of air as she brings him closer to his orgasm.  She moves her hands slowly over him as her mouth moves to his exposed neck, licking up his jaw and grazing her nose over the small dusting of masculine hair on his chin, indicating he hasn’t shaved since he bought her.

He leans his head against the back of the couch as he experiences his first euphoria by her.  He moans as she drags his last tremor from him and she removes her hands.  She’s slightly disgusted by the stickiness coating her hands but she quickly stands and washes her hands in the kitchen sink. She turns back and sees the prince still coming down, leaning back and moaning quietly.  She strides back over and straddles his lap, grazing her thumbs over his swollen lips.

“Dear Angel, where did you learn to do _that?_ ” he asks, leaning into her palms, turning to kiss her open hand.  His eyes are still closed as he leans forward and draws her lips to his.  He moans at her apple taste and she musses his ivory hair.

“The same place I learned how to please you.  Same place you bought me from my prince,” she says against his lips.  She lets him continue to lick over her lips, tasting, claiming, feeling as his hands caress her back under her shirt.  He doesn’t say anything more, probably absorbed in the feel of her and she lets their old conversation drown in the drunkenness she’s forcing on her prince.  She presses her core against his still swollen manhood even with the raging nerves and voices telling her not to let him inside her.

She thrusts up a few times for good measure, to insight the prince’s lust but their private time is quickly interrupted by a knock at the door and an announcement of the queen.  Clary has to rip herself from the prince’s grasp, a very possessive grasp, to stand as the queen enters.  She’s dressed in a flowing green sundress, her hair braided to one side in a loose braid.  Her regal gait oozes propriety and that odd motherly air.  Clary bows her head in respect and her cheeks flame in embarrassment as she sees the only item of clothing she possesses is her shirt.

“Your Majesty,” she says in respect, lifting her head to find the queen looking at her drolly.  The prince stands and places his body in front of hers to block her mostly naked body from the queen.  She silently thanks him and sidles closer to his also mostly naked body.  The queen nods her head in acknowledgment to her then turns to the prince who bows slightly, careful to keep her body hidden.

“Your Majesty,” the prince says, his voice no longer hoarse and husky but clearly annoyed to have been interrupted.  “How can I be of service to you?”

The queen smiles warmly at the prince, none of the disgust from yesterday morning on her face when she looked at Clary present as her sweet voice fills the room.  “I had actually come to see Clarissa,” she says, completely surprising her.  She looks up, her eyes having drifted to the floor, to find the queen’s expression completely sincere.  “I heard she had been shot by the assassin.”

“I’m fine, really.  Your Majesty shouldn’t concern yourself with me.  It was only a nick to the shoulder,” she says quietly, not wanting to draw the attention of the queen of this realm.  She doesn’t feel like the queen likes her too much, despite the motherly air Her Majesty gives off.

That earns a scornful look from the prince directed at her.  “It is _not_ just a nick, Clarissa,” he says sternly, turning back to the queen after casting her a look that says they’ll talk about that later.  “She was shot in the shoulder, causing some muscle damage but the doctor fixed that.  She’s grateful you came to check on her but she needs to get her bandages changed.  Thank you for visiting Your Majesty,” the prince says curtly, a tone Clary would never dare take with royalty.

The queen stiffens, nodding before leaving the suite, a company of guards following her.  Clary blushes and starts to slip away from the prince.  Her back is turned to the Heir and she’s some ways down the hall when she hears the prince call out.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Clary grimaces; she almost got away.  Wiping the grimace off, she turns on her heel.

“To change?” she says, seeing the reprimand in his midnight eyes.

“In a minute.  Come here,” he says, gesturing for her to come over to him.  She slides up beside him.  “I don’t want you taking being _shot_ so lightly.  Do you understand?  You could have died, it’s not something to be taken as a nick in the arm.  You are more important to me than you will ever know and I will _not_ have you putting your life below its worth.  You’re my companion now and will treat yourself as such because I will not let you treat yourself like the low life you think you are.  Now sit down and stay there while the doctor changes your bandages,” he says gruffly, pointing to the couch.

Clary is slightly taken aback at the fierceness of his voice but drops her gaze to the floor while dropping onto the couch with her hands cradled in her lap.  She needs to stop being so bold, it’s not her place to speak out against a prince, especially an Heir.  Hers is not the dominate roll, which the prince has solidly secured for himself in this relationship.  Damned to serve; that is her roll and her roll alone.

The prince steps up in front of her, she can see his bare feet toe to toe with hers.  Two fingers crook under her chin and tilt it up to look into the prince’s midnight depths.  His expression has softened fractionally.  “You’re worth more to me than you think, little one,” he whispers, leaning down and kissing her forehead just as the doctor comes in the door.  The prince pulls back immediately, dropping his hand like he was caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing.  The medic bows before moving over to Clary and kneeling in front of her.   She tears her gaze away from the prince and his words.

The medic is somewhat handsome, actually stunningly so.  In his mid-twenties maybe, his pitch black hair sets his piercingly blue eyes ablaze with mirth and intelligence.  He reminds her of Alec.  His kind face smiles up at her as he pulls out bandages and gauze.  “Hello, Clarissa,” the man says, his voice rich and cultured with a firm Idrian accent, making his words flowing and smooth.  The prince has one too, she wonders why she hasn’t noticed it before.

“Hello.”

“I’m Duke William Herondale.  We met yesterday but I don’t suppose you would remember that,” he says, starting to peel away the bandages already coating her arm.  This isn’t the same man who came in to change her bandages yesterday but she has a vague image of black hair in the chaos of yesterday morning.

“It’s nice to meet, Your Grace.  Though why you’re attending me, I don’t think I understand.  You’re royalty.  Are you not?”  Clary asks.  William has pulled the old bandages off to reveal a much smaller hole than from yesterday.  It is still open and raw enough to require medical attention though.

“I’m royalty yes, but I much rather prefer the occupations of a doctor.  It’s more interesting to tend wounds than tend the scandals of court, for me at least,” he says, taping down the edge of the much smaller bandage.  The ointment seeping into her skin cools the burning and throbbing, making the pain fade instantly.  “That should heal by tonight completely but if it starts to hurt or bleed, come find me.  Otherwise, you’ll be fine and healed in a few hours.”

William stands, throwing the used bandages in the waste bin and bowing to the prince.  He nods back as Clary stands.  “Thank you, Your Grace,” she says as he heads for the door.  Stopping, he turns and smiles warmly at her.

“Please, call me Will.  Always a pleasure Clarissa, your Highness.”  With that he leaves, closing the door behind him.  She tilts her head to the side as she ponders why a Duke of the realm, especially this realm, would prefer a medical career over a royal one but then again, politics are very tricky and corrupt.  Maybe she could make a friend out of the Duke, maybe he would share some of her views on royalty and the abundance they have and do not share.  No, she could never speak her mind here and if she does say anything against the prince and his royal family, she’ll be punished.  Either by any who hear her or by the chip still implanted in her wrist.

She stands, planning on going back to change but feels her shirt tighten behind her as it is pulled taut against her stomach and bunched up at the small of her back.  She feels large, warm hands slide over her hips, tugging her back against a firm warm body.  The prince’s abdomen fits perfectly to the curve of her back as he presses up against her, brushing her hands over her stomach as his strong arms encircle her waist.  She forces her body to melt against the man’s behind her.

His velvet mouth brushes beside her ear.  “I want this shirt off,” he says hoarsely and she can feel his erection against her back, growing harder.  “And I want you in my bed, _now._ ”

She takes a deep breath as his words wash through her like a tidal wave.  “But—” She begins but is silenced as his arms tighten around her.

“Don’t.  Argue.  With me.  Just do it,” he says, his voice forceful and husky.  She barely restrains the shiver that runs through her.

“Y-Yes, your Highness.  I am to do with whatever my prince pleases,” she breathes, grasping his wrists tightly before he pulls away, pushing on her rump and urging her down the hallway.  In a somewhat drunken haze, she stumbles down the hallway, rushing to the prince’s room.  Leaning against the closed door, she takes a deep breath, clearing the estrogen fueled haze.  Oh god, he’s going to deflower her!

He doesn’t have the patience to wait for tonight, for her to heal.  He’s going to take her now, this morning and she has to let him.  Steeling herself, she pushes away from the door and pulls her shirt over her head.  She drapes herself across the black bed on her stomach, taking down her hair from the messy bun and spilling it over her shoulders.

Is it really going to be so bad with this prince?  His sexual prowess alone is enough to make her pant for him.  But is he going to be rough?  He certainly has the power and muscle to.  The pain of one’s first time is said to be untold but repaid tenfold in the pleasure that comes.  It’s not unheard of though for the man to treat the woman in such a way that the pain lasts; the man only takes his pleasure.  She’ll have to endure this for the rest of her life, her virginity was taken and sold long ago.  She was condemned to this fate the moment her parents left her on the doorstep of the abandoned building.

She can remember the first cold nights, alone in her drafty bedroom, the moonlight spilling through the warped old window.  She always went hungry, never completely satisfied.  They always fed her but never enough, the rest was given to the other kids she had to share the drafty dorm room with.  She can remember sitting by herself in the back of the room, away from the rest of the kids, satisfied to be alone with the piece of paper and pencil she stole from the store room.  The leather belt cracking across her hands when the foster father found out what she stole.

She remembers being lost in the streets of New York, cold, hungry, no different from when she was in her foster home but out there, she could do whatever she wanted and whatever she needed to do.  She had her own life, her own ways and Valentine came for her.  She was forced to become a sex slave and now here she is, naked and served up a black silk platter for the prince of Idris’s devouring.  She closes her eyes as she hears the door open, bending her legs and crossing her ankles in the air, bracing herself for what is to come.

Opening her eyes, she gives the prince a sultry stare as he saunters over to her.  He flips her over onto her back as he reaches the bed.  She hisses in pleasure as the prince ducks his head down to her bare chest and takes her right nipple into his mouth.  He uses his teeth to roll it around, his tongue flicking back and forth until it’s tight and pert.  His arms cage her in as he crawls up her body, his gaze like that of a predator, hunting his prey.  Fear and anxiety coil her muscles at his look, her eyes widening as he tilts his head, his white silver hair tousled and sexy.  The man practically oozes sex and arousal, which is pouring over her and setting her hormones ablaze.

He dips his head down to her mouth, claiming her lips, possessing her.  She moans deeply, the prince obviously trying to get her hot and bothered as he traces his fingertips lightly over her chest and quivering stomach, faltering at her panties before moving to cup her thigh.  He bends her leg around his waist while she crooks the other to brace herself against the bed, knowing, with the prince’s power, how much she’ll have to compensate to meet his thrusts.  She pushes her fingers into his hair, the silken locks caressing her fingers as the prince deepens the kiss.

He fits his knee between her legs, the short hairs prickling her inner thighs, arousing her more than she could possibly imagine.  His lips move over hers with an expertise that should be illegal as his hand comes up to bury itself in her curls briefly before trailing his fingertips over her trembling stomach once again, drawing slow, teasing circles on her skin.  She whimpers pathetically as he removes his lips from hers.  She tries to sit up to follow but he presses his finger pads against her lower ribs, gently pressing her back down.  She looks down to watch him trail kisses that blaze over her skin down between her breasts.  He pauses there, to suckle on her right breast briefly, making her hiss in pleasure, before moving to her stomach.  He kisses each of her hips, making her even hotter where she aches for him, before he dips his tongue into her naval.

She moans at the hot sensation, arching her back.  How can something as painful as deflowering come from something so pleasurable?  Her leg falls from the prince’s hip as he moves lower and she braces her other foot on the bed.  She doesn’t dare touch him, his animalistic and determined gait dares her to try and touch him, stop him, soothe him.  No, he is on a one way trip that will not be interrupted so she fists her hands in the black comforter, watching as he reaches the waist band of her black lace panties.  His black eyes, blacker than her panties, flick up to hers and his look alone makes her moan quietly.  He dips his head down to her thighs, and she has to stifle a gasp as his teeth nip the flesh beside her core, right on her thigh.

Her hands fly to her legs, wanting to soothe the sensation between her thighs, shocked by the unexpectedness of his actions.  She doesn’t want him down there, her entire body screams at her not to allow him to go down there, to touch her most private and, sadly, most coveted part of her.  She’s never even touched herself before and she doesn’t think the prince, or anyone should be down there before herself. The prince’s head shoots up, his hands, which were cupping the backs of her thighs, catch her wrists.  Sitting back ono his heels, he leans down and kisses the insides of her wrists, sending fire and shivers up her arms.

She lets out a quiet moan at his devilish grin and the softness of his lips against a part of her that isn’t even intimate, but the way he kisses her there makes her blush in shame at having them exposed.  But if anyone is allowed to see them or any of her body at all, it would be the prince.  He bought her, body and soul, after all.  He has a right to his property.

Placing both her wrists in one of his hands, he slowly makes his way back up her body, kissing her naval, her breasts, her neck and licking his way up to her ear.  Lifting her hands above her head and pinning them to the mattress, he whispers huskily, “Stay.”

She wants to scream at him that she isn’t his dog, but she’s silenced by a burning kiss to her lips before he returns to her thighs.  Starting at her knee, he licks up her inner thigh and she has to mentally beat herself back to keep her wrists where the prince put them.  Using her braced feet, she unconsciously lifts her core toward his mouth as he nears it.  His hands come up once again from cupping her thighs, to squeeze her butt before grasping her hips and forcing her back onto the bed.

It’s torture to stay still at the prince’s request as he torments her body with his mouth, so much so that she wants to scream but the prince works up to the juncture of her thighs.  Her body tenses and melts at the same time as the prince presses his nose up against her core, brushing her ever so slightly through the fabric.  It sends fire coursing through her body as the prince lifts his head to see her gawking at him between her legs.  He flashes a devilish grin before grasping her panties between his perfect white teeth and pulling them off her legs, smoothing them down on the bed to work the piece of black fabric completely off.

Sitting back on his heels, with his tousled hair and midnight eyes, he looks like a puppy with a treat, her lace panties dangling from his mouth before he smiles at her again, tossing the panties away.  She’s completely bare to him and she can’t help but tremble in fear and pleasure from the hot gaze being placed upon her core.  She wants to cover herself so badly that her hands twitch above her and her knees bend, closing her legs to the prince with a quiet slap of skin.

The prince looks up at her with a teasing scorn, his little pet disobeying him.  Her lower legs are still straddling the prince’s thighs as he rises up on his knees.  She’s certain she looks like a cornered animal, her green eyes wide, scared and no doubt swimming in lust as the pleasure still racks her body.  The prince doesn’t move to open her knees, just looks down on her from his perch above her.  He strokes his hands, rough and calloused, down her calves, sending shivers over her skin.  His sultry looks burns her.

“Open your legs for me, little one,” he says hoarsely, his voice low and rumbling, rushing through her with passion so heated, she might have climaxed had he been touching her down there in any way.  Clary has no choice but to obey as she feels her left wrist twitch in a small warning shock if she continues to disobey.  She parts her legs for the prince, expecting his gaze to travel back down to that tender part of her but he keeps his satisfied gaze on her face.  Somehow it manages to soothe her, with his confidence and respect oozing out of him.

For a moment, as the prince looks at her face, her expression and not her body, she almost feels like an actual human being.  Like someone actually notices her for more than just an expensive whore or a street rat.  But she quashes the feeling before any real hope can congregate.  She knows full well she is only here to please the prince; he doesn’t really have any feelings more than lust and desire for her.  So she steels herself and forces her body to relax, letting her knees go limp and her body to stretch out before the prince.

The prince’s gaze finally flicks down to her stomach then her core before he leans down and bends her knees over his shoulders.  Before she can react, he takes her into his mouth.  She cries out in shock and pleasure as fire courses through her veins, back arching off the bed.  She grips the sheets above her as he dips his tongue into her, swirling around and in and out.  She closes her eyes as she’s lost in the sensation of it.  She lifts her hips, meeting him as he teases and pleases her.  His tongue dips in her before pulling out and nipping at her clitoris.  She writhes in pleasure as the man between her legs does the wickedest things to her. 

Her stomach knots and her nerve endings fire as her hormones are set ablaze.  She’s never known sex could feel this good.  Especially oral sex, she’s always viewed it as vile and unclean but god, what he’s doing to her now is unravelling her.  Before she knows it, she’s crying out in ecstasy as she reaches the ultimate peak for the first time in her life.  For a few wonderful moments, its complete bliss as her body shudders in the throes of an orgasm.

The prince still does not stop pleasuring her and before too long she’s had the second climax of her life.  By the end, she’s panting and sweat beads her forehead.  Her eyes closed, her body falls back on the bed, having arched up in pleasure, begging the prince to give her more but she doesn’t think she can take anymore, not now anyway.  She feels the prince’s mouth leave her and his body moving to cover hers before he takes her lips, the taste of herself still tangy on his lips as he parts hers with his tongue and presses his body flush with hers.

After all of this, he’s managed to keep his boxers on.  She can feel the soft fabric caressing her core, her sensitive core and she can’t help but arch up into him, rubbing herself against him to sate the last little sparks of pleasure.  The prince groans before chuckling darkly against her lips, returning the pressure but not moving to take off his boxers.  Finally he pulls back.

“Are you scared now, my lady?” he asks, moving over her cheek to nip her jaw and suck on her earlobe.  She realizes, now she’s had a taste of the pleasure, she’s terrified of how she’ll feel after he’s penetrated her.  She’s terrified about how the prince will treat her and if she’ll just be an object to him, not a person.  Of course she’s just a thing to him, an object of pleasure for him to seek out when his groin gets hard but she’ll have to acclimate to it.  It’s her life now.

Clary moans as the prince nips her skin just below her ear.  “No,” she groans, arching up into him, pressing her naked body against his exceptionally hard one.  It’s a lie but a lie told to please the prince.  And a lie told is pleasure sold, so says Valentine.

The prince pulls back to offer her a smirk as he runs his hands over her naked body, coming to rest over her waist.  “I had to have you in one way or another, little one.  The anguish of waiting has never been my strong suit.”

“I can see that,” she says, her voice husky and silky at the same time.  She reaches up to cup the prince’s cheek, a gesture meant for affection but Clary always thought of it as something deeper, comfort really but the meaning is squandered with her job.  “You really should fix that.” 

The prince grins before leaning down and capturing her lips again for a melting kiss.  He pulls back after a moment.   “You’re mine to have when I want.  I don’t need to fix it.”

“Possessive too,” Clary says teasingly, her body starting to ache in the sweetest way and her mind starting to cloud over.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” the prince asks, almost petulantly as he nuzzles his nose against her throat.

“Does the prince not like to share?” Clary asks, a light giggle sliding from her throat.  She feels really tired all of a sudden.  Sex is supposed to be very taxing, especially when it’s one’s first time, and two orgasms were given within minutes it wasn’t surprising how tired she was.

“Never,” he whispers.  He ducks his head down, gently kissing up her throat and she actually purrs.  “And I’ll never have to share you, little flower.  Because you’re mine and mine alone.”

Clary giggles again, her eyes now closed.  “Greedy, greedy.  You bad boy.”

“The baddest,” he says, sucking on her throat until she moans again.  “Go back to bed, little one.  I’ll be here when you wake.”

Clary nods sleepily, feeling incredibly sore as the prince lifts her from the bed only to pull back the covers and set her on the soft, down mattress and silk sheets.  He slides in after her and pulls her back to his front, fitting his thigh securely between her legs.  His arms rest lightly around her hips as he holds her to him.  She sighs contentedly, only vaguely aware that the prince didn’t deflower her this morning.

Clary slides her hand over his and laces their fingers together.  He’s so strong and comforting in an odd sort of way.  Like he’s secured and confident in his sexuality and his ownership of her but he doesn’t flaunt it in the way she would expect.  Yes, he calls her ‘his’ but he does in such a way that it’s meant to be an endearment, not a dog tag.  His thumb brushes over her knuckles and he tucks her head under his chin.

“What will you do while I sleep?” Clary whispers in the dark, tracing circles over the back of his palm.

“Watch over you,” he murmurs, rubbing his toes along her calf.

She turns her head, even though she can’t see him in the lack of light.  “Why would I need someone to watch over me?”

“Because no one’s ever protected you.”

Maybe he’s not entirely as bad as she first thought.  Maybe he’ll actually love her…  No, that’s absurd.  Yes, he’ll love her as a pet or whore but not as a person, not as herself.  No one could ever love a nobody.  Her heart clenches as she remembers just exactly what makes her a nobody.  She banishes those thoughts, wanting to fool herself for a little while that she and the prince are two lovers who care for each other deeply and he is holding her as she sleeps because he can’t stand to let go of her.  With that ridiculous fantasy in mind, she slips off to dreamland, the prince’s warm and comforting touch radiating all over her body.

She’s pulled out of her dream by fire creeping between her legs.  It burns as she comes into her senses.  She’s flush against the prince’s warm chest, locked in place by the arm wrapped about her waist, his long tapered fingers just brushing her bare nipple.  His thigh is shoved up between her legs, the crisp hairs dusting his leg brushing against her sex, making her shiver.  She turns her head to find the prince asleep behind her, despite his twitching fingers by her breast and his stroking leg, pushing up into her core to pleasure her.  His eyes move underneath his lids, his lashes brushing his cheeks, in the throes of a dream.

And judging from the sweat on his brow, the raging hard-on pressing against her hip, and the way his body is twitching slightly in a fluid motion, it’s a sex dream.  She’s never really had a sex dream before, only flashes and imaginations of what being with a man would be like.  Clary decides to tease him, to see how he reacts, out of pure curiosity.  Night’s House ever put her in any situation like this.  She lightly trails her fingers over his forearm draped over her side.  He makes a soft noise and shifts against her.

She turns around in his grasp then places a kiss on his bare chest, right above his nipple.  He actually moans.  Clary lifts an eyebrow at him before trailing her hand down his solar plexus, over his well-toned abdomen to the small trail of hair that leads to his erection.  His arm tightens around her as she gets closer to him and just as she’s starting to stroke him through his boxers, he throws his leg over hers and pulls her flush with him.  He groans as her naked breasts press against his chest.

Clary scoots up on the bed, coming eye level with the prince.  She blows a soft breath over his nose, which twitches.  She almost laughs at the oddity of the prince twitching his nose like a rabbit.  She blows another breath over his lips but doesn’t stand to see the reaction as he surges forward and claims her lips, kissing her blind.  He rolls her over onto her back, pinning one wrist beside her head as he parts her lips with his tongue.  They both groan at the taste of each other and Clary realizes that the prince is no longer asleep as his other hand slips around to press against the small of her back, pushing her closer to his body and to arch her back into him.

His mouth slips from hers and moves to her neck, where he licks and nibbles until she’s mewling helplessly under the prince’s weight. Only now does she remember she’s completely naked and the prince isn’t that far behind her, with only his boxers.  His hand moves from her back around to her stomach, tracing small circles around her naval before he dips his hand down and separates the folds of her body to touch her core.

She gasps at the sensation of his fingers pressing against her.  She fists her hand in his hair, lifting her hips to ride his hand as he makes pleasure sweep through her body with a fiery heat.  Clary moans quietly, sucking in a sharp breath as he massages her body.  He’s now made love to her with his mouth and with his hand and both have felt phenomenal.  All that’s left… is pressing against her stomach as the prince moves back up her body to reclaim her lips.

She groans as he separates her lips with his tongue, hot with his arousal as she inches closer to orgasm.  She just woke up, her body barely conscious and yet the prince has already thrown her into a whirlpool of pleasure.

“Clarissa,” the prince breathes against her lips as he jerks his hand up against her.

“Prince,” she whimpers just before she’s thrust into absolute bliss.  He doesn’t stop pleasuring her until the last tremor of her orgasm has been wrung from her body.  She’s left weak and spent beneath the prince, naked and entirely at his mercy.  He still kisses her, taking what little energy she has left with his fervor.  She doesn’t think she completely recovered from the last orgasm he gave her and this one rocked her body to its foundations.

Finally, mercifully, he pulls away from her lips.  He’s breathing heavily as he presses his forehead to hers.  He seems like he’s holding himself back and struggling to do so.  Urged on by her obligatory drive that Valentine made sure to drill into her head so she’d be a good little Escort, she summons her little strength remaining and cups the prince’s face, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs.

“You don’t have to wait, my prince.  I’m yours to have whenever it pleases you.  You don’t have to hold back,” she says quietly, even though her soul and mind are dragging her down and beating her for her words.  She’s a person too, with an opinion and body and feelings that can be hurt but did Valentine care to listen to them?  No.  He only got her presents and toys he thought a girl would like and she learned to keep her mouth shut because whenever she did open it to voice her opinions she was harshly slapped down for it.  Will the prince listen to her opinions?  Or even care about how she feels or what she wants?  No.  Probably not.

She’d rather keep her mouth shut and suffer in silence than be shot down for an opinion regarding something as innocuous as, oh she doesn’t know, _her_ virginity.  But no, that opinion and right to it was stripped from her six years ago.

“I know, little one.  I just wish to make your first time special and gentle, that is all.  I don’t know what I would do if I hurt you.  And right now I don’t think I have the will to be gentle,” he whispers darkly.  His words stun her, along with his blunt comment that makes her burn in hatred, surely he doesn’t mean the former though.  Or maybe he just doesn’t want to have damaged goods.  He might want to break her in and build up her tolerance so when he does let loose, completely, she’ll be used to it.  She can respect someone like that, who thinks ahead but still she spits on the idea of being a sex slave for the rest of her life.

She almost bursts out in tears at the idea but she hasn’t allowed herself to cry thus far.  She hasn’t had an opportunity to be alone, the prince seems to want her glued to his side.  She wants to cry or shout or scream at the frustration of it all.  She hasn’t wept since she was fifteen and hasn’t wanted to before this.  It’s not fair; why did she have to be sold off to some lusty, over bearing, pompous, pampered, arrogant, snide, wealthy asshole who thinks he can have any and everything if he throws money at it or drops his pants.  Why do people have to lie so much?

Valentine told her that this life would be well and lavish but from what she’s seen, it’s just compensation for selling your soul out to some jackass set on defiling you.  This prince is spilling lies from his mouth as he rants about how he cares for her, doesn’t want to hurt her, doesn’t want to see her hurt.  She wants to scream from the injustice.  He doesn’t give a rat’s filthy, furry ass about her.  He only cares about the condition of his eleven million dollar sex toy.  He’ll never love her or view her as anything other than a source to relieve his sexual urges and produce heirs.  She bites her lips until she can taste blood before taking a deep breath, thankful that she can disguise it as her breathlessness from his kiss before speaking.

“May I go to the bathroom then?  If you’re going to wait.  I would like to shower if you would let me,” she says subserviently, her soul imploding and crumbling with depression and rage as she forces herself to subject herself to this lust filled pig.  He’s no better than anyone else.  That is the conviction of men, lust and sex, nothing more.  And it pains her so much to have to go on her knees to this man that she’s surprised a wound hasn’t opened in her chest.

The prince nods and rolls off her with obvious effort.  She makes a point not to bolt from the bed as she rises, aware she’s completely naked and not in the least bit ashamed, being a whore and all, and walks from the room.  Her heart tearing open as she walks one door down to the bathroom, where, once inside, she locks the door and walks over to the shower to turn it on, scalding hot.  She braces her hands on the sink counter and looks at herself in the mirror.  On the outside, you wouldn’t be able to tell if there was anything wrong with her.  She just looks like an Escort who’s had a go round in bed with her patron, her body naked and sweaty with her red hair disheveled and messy from sleep and the prince.  But inside, something is breaking.  Her will maybe, her soul, her heart, knowing she’ll never really be loved or viewed as more than a toy.  She can see her pulse pounding in her throat and her chip warming as her adrenaline levels rise and cortisol levels lower in anger and grief.  Escorts aren’t allowed to be mad or angry, it’s not sexy or attractive.  Therefore the chip monitors all hormone levels and vitals and brain waves to detect if she’s stepping out of line.

She can do nothing to quench her anger and sadness though as it rises with every passing thought.  It’s so hard not to burst out crying but she screams abruptly as the chip sends a throb of electricity up her arm.  It’s almost enough to make her cry.  She’s being punished for having emotions.  She steps into the shower, the water burning her skin as it falls down her body.  She’s being punished for being human, for having opinions, for not wanting to be a slave and sell her body when she doesn’t even get the money.

She sinks to the floor of the shower, curling her knees up to her chest and bowing her head.  She bites her cheek as another shock runs through her as her anger remains high.  She didn’t deserve this, why did Valentine have to pick _her_ off the street.  She’s an orphan for Angel’s sake, he could have had his pick of any royal he wanted but no, he had to choose her and ruin _her_ life.

She almost screams in pain as another, more powerful shock makes her body shudder but she bites her cheek until she can taste the coppery tang of her blood.  It’s not fair, it’s not fair!  He should have just left her on the streets, he should have left her as she was.  Anywhere is better than being a sex slave against your will and shackled to some shithead who thinks he owns everything, then has the gall to feign caring about you!

She splits her lip again as another shock, more powerful and painful than the last racks her body, making her muscles convulse.  She almost welcomes the pain, it’s no worse than the pain of her soul being shredded by the devil it was sold to.  She unfolds herself and lays flat on her back on the hot stone tile, letting the water batter her, let it beat at her, just as the prince will eventually do if she steps out of line.  She knows it.  He won’t tolerate insubordination.  She jerks as another shock runs through her and she almost cries out in pain.  The nails of her right hand are digging into her left wrist where she can feel the chip.

It shocks her again, making her body convulse painfully before she tries to force herself to calm down, it’s only going to get worse.  Night’s House has no mercy when it comes to their rules and the appearances of their precious little whores.  They are perfect and every Escort thrust out of Night’s House training bears the scars to remember the rules by.  Inside and out, though they take care to use their stupid cosmetics to heal all outward scars.  Angel forbid any of them should have a blemish upon their skin.  Fucking bastards.

She squeaks in pain as another shock runs through her and her hand clamps down around her wrist, trying to relieve the pain.  She tries to quell her anger by thinking about the stars outside, how they glitter and gleam and dance around the dark blue canvas.  She tries not to think about how Valentine took away her sketchbook years ago and how she would desperately love to draw the stars she’s never laid eyes on, but he would have none of it.

Eventually, the shocks stop and she lies empty on the floor of the shower, the water still pelting over her.  She closes her eyes, it’s been about twenty minutes since she turned on the shower, the prince might come, wondering if she’s alright.  Angel forbid he actually cares.  She draws a deep breath before she stands and runs conditioner through her hair and soap over her body before turning the shower off and stepping out, dripping wet.  She reaches for a towel only to see blood dripping from her left wrist, where she’d clamped her nails down in an effort to stop the pain.  Damn.

She grabs the towel and quickly dries herself off before disposing of the towel and striding over to the door.  Unlocking it she walks to the kitchen in search of a bandage before the prince sees her.  Looking through all the cabinets she comes up empty handed as she starts on the lower drawers.  Her back turned to the rest of the room, bent over, she doesn’t see the prince approach.  She pulls out a roll of gauze just as the prince clears his throat behind her.

She starts, spinning around and taking care to brace her left hand behind her on the counter so the prince can’t see it.  He’s in a loose t-shirt and jeans, despite the warmth and his eyes wander over he appreciatively and she curses herself as she realizes she neglected to put some clothes on.  His hands are shoved in his pockets and his posture relaxed but that of a predator that can spring into action at any moment.

“What are you doing out here?” he asks, his tone not completely in contradiction of her nudeness.

“Looking for you,” she hazards, her tone nonchalant and unembarrassed by her nudity, with any luck it will distract him enough to get her out of this precarious situation.

“In the drawers?” he says, tilting his head and stepping up to her.  She cranes her neck up at him, her hand tightening on the counter behind her.  He runs the back of two knuckles down her throat and between her breasts that stand pert and firm in the cool air, a shock compared to the heat of the shower she just took.  Her body is still burning with heat from it.

Clary doesn’t have anything to say to that.  She doesn’t hesitate though in coming up with a distraction.  She goes up on her tiptoes and kisses him.  He responds immediately by taking his other hand out his pocket and wraps both around her waist.  He moves faster than she can protest, grabbing her left wrist and jerking it out from behind her, pulling away from her.  He studies the white strip for a moment before turning back to her with an expectant look.

She shrugs.  “I just wanted to know where they were,” she says innocently.

“And it couldn’t have waited until you put clothes on?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.  He still hasn’t let go of her wrist, which is still painfully sore from her nails and the shocks.  So is the rest of her body but not as much as her wrist.

“Why?  Does my nudity bother you?” she asks.

“No,” he says, almost indignant, before releasing her wrist and she slips out from between him and the counter.  She tries not to bolt back to the bathroom.  She almost does as she hears the prince’s sharp intake of breath but she’s made it far enough that she can rush to the separate room across from the prince’s and slams the door.

Now, she’s going to be punished.  Just like at Night’s House.  Valentine used to hit her because she was clumsy and opened a cut on herself.  He said for every cut she opened, he would bruise her worth ten more.  He always carried through on that promise then afterward, only then would he take up the cloak of a ‘father’ and tend her wounds.  The prince will hurt her, he’ll hit her just like Valentine did.  Escorts are supposed to be graceful and careful with their bodies because they’re regarded as treasures; marring them is considered a crime.

He’s going to punish her for her clumsiness and foolishness.  Just as Valentine did.  She doesn’t dare lock the door for fear it might heighten the prince’s anger at her so she only stands away from it and braces for when he comes through the door.  Clary stumbles back as the door is thrown open to reveal her prince, with his ivory hair and regal gait.  He holds up his right hand, his palm coated in a thin layer of blood.  She sucks in her breath, eyes flicking down to her wrist.  She didn’t realize that she was bleeding that badly.

“What is this?” he says, his voice deceptively calm.

Clary is shaking as she falls to her knees, dipping her head so not to meet his eyes.  “I-I’m sorry.  I slipped,” she says, lying.  If she told the truth he would want to know why her chip was going off.  He might already know, he has the small, glass screen that displays her vitals and hormone levels that came in her envelope.  Looking up slightly, she can actually see the small tablet peeking out of his pocket.  Her heart sinks in dread.

She knows she’s naked, on her knees and she hates it.  She hates the degradation she’s forced to go through but there is nothing she can do.  She has to obey her patron or be sent back to Valentine for a much more severe punishment.  She sees the edge of the glass tablet flash red as her anger builds, it’s immediately squelched by fear but the prince doesn’t seem to notice, only holds out his bloody hand.

She flinches, expecting a blow but he doesn’t move to strike her. 

“Let me see,” he says and she hates how his voice is still calm.  She would be a lot more comfortable if he just yelled at her.  Whenever Valentine got mad he was always calm and nice about it at first then he turned mean.

Her hand trembling she reaches up to place her hand in his.  He tugs her off the floor, startling her and making her flinch away.  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says quietly as he turns her wrist over to bare the four crescents on her wrist where her nails dug in.  She seriously doubted his words but she stood her ground, letting the prince examine her wrist.  Her eyes were glued to the floor.

“It doesn’t look like you just slipped,” the prince says, trying to make her look at him but she knows better.  She isn’t allowed.  She doesn’t say anything, only stands there with her head bowed and her wrist still resting in his open palm.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Most certainly not; she would most likely be beaten for her answer and explanation of why she was angry.  But she isn’t about to say that out loud.  She stays quiet again.

“Tell me, little one,” he says softly, tenderly.

She still says nothing but yelps in pain, jumping away as another shock runs through her still sore body.  She clasps her hand around her wrist.  She’s being punished for not answering.  She looks up at the prince, hating how tortured her eyes must appear, through her red lashes.

“Is that answer enough?” Clary asks shyly, wanting so badly to run away down the hall and shut herself in the bathroom until she can overcome her anger and fear but that would take years and even then she wouldn’t be able to completely forgive all that’s happened to her.

He steps forward and she flinches back.  Using slow careful movements, he reaches around her to the bed.  She jumps as he draws a soft, furred robe around her that must have been lying on the bed in anticipation for her arrival.  He drapes it around her shoulders and ties it at her waist.  He kisses her forehead lightly.

“For now,” he says, looking down at her.  He strokes down her cheek with the backs of his fingers.  She struggles against herself to not flinch away, still believing he’ll strike her but remains still.  He reaches into the robe and withdraws her left wrist, her hand still clamping on the bandage.  He slowly unclenches her fingers, still trembling, and withdraws the bandage.  He tears it open, still managing to hold her wrist gingerly, and removes the wrapping.

“Look at me,” he says, his voice low and hoarse.  Clary forces herself to look up at his face but not making eye contact.  “Look at me, little one,” he says again.  “My eyes, I give you permission.”  His voice cracks.  Clary takes a deep breath and moves her eyes up to stare into his depthless black ones.  She’s held captive by his gaze as he uses his thumb to wipe away the little trickle of blood from her wrist.  Holding it to his lips he licks it off slowly.  A shiver runs down her spine at the unexpectedly erotic action.  His eyes spark as he places the bandage over her cut.  He leans down and gently kisses the wound, kissing up her arm until the shoulder of the robe falls away and he’s reached the edge of her collarbone.  She tilts her head obligingly to let him nibble his way up her throat.

“Don’t be afraid to tell me if you hurt yourself,” he whispers, his mouth caressing the skin below her ear.  “I want you to feel safe with me.  Don’t tremble.  I’d never hurt you, okay?  You’re safe now, little one.”  He brushes a curl behind her ear.  “No one’s ever going to hurt you again.”

Clary almost chokes on a sob.  How did he know about that?  Valentine only gave her bruises from time to time and that was only for a year because she didn’t obey.  After that she was subservient and a good student.  But before that, the foster homes, it left too many scars on her.  Inside and out, she still remembers the procedure that Valentine did to heal her body completely of its scars.

No, he can’t know about that, it’s not possible.  He’s just saying words to get her to stop trembling.  His mouth brushes over her cheek before he kisses her gently.  It’s a sweet kiss, slow and comforting and it soothes the trembling of her body.  When he pulls back, he pulls the robe back up to cover her and she puts her arms through the sleeves.

“Let’s go eat some dinner,” he says and he tilts his head back to look her in the eyes.  She averts her gaze before he can see the anguish in her eyes.  Bowing her head, she steps back from the prince.

“Thank you, your Highness,” she says, wiping away any bad emotion that might raise the prince’s suspicion.  She can’t take the feeling in the prince’s words when she knows it’s fake.  She slips past him and his hand trails across her back as she exits the room, the prince in tow.

Out in the kitchen, the prince sits down on the couch and draws her across his lap.  She smiles at him in an effort to wipe away her fear and anger, his suspicion.  It seems to work as he smirks back and creeps a hand inside her robe to her waist.  He uses his free hand to reach over to the black wood side table where he picks up a glass tablet, much like the one used for her chip, and as soon as he touches it, images and words pop up.

Clary leans her head on his shoulder, her arms draped around his neck, and watches him swipe and select.  He presses on a word in a foreign dialect and a menu pops up, with floating images of steaks and salads and some dessert food that looks like a sphere of frozen milk.  She watches as he clicks on different words that she can’t understand and a small list appears to the side of the screen with the items he’s selected.  It’s frustrating frankly, that she can’t understand what the words mean.  She was trained in virtually every language but one of the lacking ones is Idrian.  They’ve always been a highly developed country with their own dialect, cultures, foods, customs and have kept their language very close to themselves.  She wonders why the prince knows English so well when America is now considered one of the less civilized countries despite its technology and power.  It’s the only country in the world that has withstood the Royal take over.  Most royal families don’t view America as worth their time at all except for wars, whores and money.

“What do you want to eat?” he asks, gesturing to the tablet in his hand.  Clary doesn’t lift her head from his shoulder.  She reaches up and swipes her finger across the screen, flicking it back to the previous page he was on.

“I don’t understand the words,” she says, looking at the beautiful scripture.  They don’t even use the alphabet she’s used to.  They’re all different symbols and letters.  “Idrian wasn’t in my language courses.”

“Hmm,” he says, bringing down a little strip with selections on it and clicking on it.  All the words turn to images of gourmet dishes and drinks and wine.  “We’ll have to fix that eventually but for now you can look at the pictures.”

Lifting her head and unlooping her arms from around the prince’s neck she takes the tablet and sets it on her bent knees.  She goes through and picks out a small portion of pasta and chicken with a glass of red wine before handing it back to the prince. 

“That’s all you’re getting?” he asks, turning the pictures back to words and pressing a button before the menu and order disappears, probably down to the kitchen.  Clary nods her head before she puts her arms back around his neck and resting her head on his chest.  The prince doesn’t seem to like that she ordered so little but doesn’t say anything, just makes the images on the screen change and the big black screen mounted on the wall clicks on, showing people talking back and forth.

Clary watches in amazement, never having seen one before, as the prince flicks from picture to picture.  This thin box mounted into the wall is sort of like a 2D version of the hologram presentations she was used to at Night’s House, the movies and shows on tablets she used to watch.  But she’s never seen something like this.  Some of the moving pictures are of nature, like she’s seen outside or of people bantering back and forth or men battling with sharp long rods of metal.  He stops on a display of two men on large animals that have long noses and hair braided down their long muscled necks, standing on opposite sides of what looks like tiny grains of tan something.  They hold long poles with two colors wrapped around each other, pointed at their opponents.  They wear suits of metal, like polished silver that she’s seen adorn the throats of princesses and queens, silver that she has tucked away in her bag as a gift from Valentine.  An emerald and silver necklace.  The lavishness of it had disgusted her.

“What are they doing?” she asks, watching as they urges the animals forward toward each other, lowering their poles in an offensive position.  Clary’s hand tightens in the prince’s shirt as the wooden poles splinter as the men ram them into each other.  One falls off and the other cheers victory.

“They’re jousting,” the prince says, albeit distractedly as his other arm circles around her waist on the outside of her robe while the one within has moved down to stroke her thigh.

“What’s jousting?” Clary asks curiously.  Why would one man want to ram a stick into another?  They could get themselves killed…  Oh, it is men doing what they’ve done for centuries: trying to show off their masculinity through violence.  Yeah, very masculine.  The prince lays his cheek atop her head, breathing deeply as though breathing her in.

“It used to be an old sport from the time of the Renaissance where one man would try to knock the other off his horse.  No one does it today because of the danger to the rider and the horse though,” he says quietly, as though reluctant to ruin the silence.

Clary bites her lip at her next question.  She hates her ignorance, she hates the sheltered life Valentine forced on her.  All she knows is how to please in a bedroom, Royal histories and how to behave like a royal consort.  Anything else was discarded. 

“What’s a horse?” Clary asks, equally quiet.  The men take up two more sticks and go at each other _again._

“It was once a widely used mode of transportation before cars.  We use them for sport and entertainment now.  Like the equestrian tournament that was meant to happen today.  We use horses for sporting.”

“Do they like being forced into a sport like that?” Clary asks and she can’t help the bitterness that tinges the edge of her words.

“Horses can’t speak, little one.  We train them and most do as their told.”

“And those who don’t?” she asks, lifting her head and meeting the prince’s eyes.

He doesn’t falter in meeting her gaze, and though her face is innocent and curious, she’s inwardly daring him to say something nasty, something a master would say to his slave.  His next words surprise her.

“We set them free.”

Hope dares to rise up inside her chest before she takes a steel toed boot and crushes it.  That could never happen to her.  If she doesn’t do as she’s told, she’ll be shipped back to America where she’ll be punished by Valentine and sold off again.  She sinks back down on the couch in the prince’s lap, oddly taking solace at his heat and the way he’s holding her, and buries her face in his neck, closing her eyes and listening to the prince’s pulse beating in his throat.

He continues to stroke her thigh softly, his other hand buried in her curls and stroking the back of her neck.  His touch almost makes her feel like he cares.  His touches aren’t lovers’ caresses but a touch of someone who can comfort you.  She sighs, imagining the prince really is someone who loves her and whom she loves and all they’re doing is sharing an evening on the couch.

She almost drifts to sleep in the peace and quiet of his arms but a knock sounds at the door, ruining the tranquility.  A large cart with platters and silver domes atop it gets wheeled in by one of the guards.  Guess the castle’s still on lock down.  The prince sets Clary down on the couch beside him before he leans forward and presses a button, making the glass coffee table rise a few inches.  The guard leaves the cart by the table and Clary notices that the prince has turned the not-hologram to a nature scene.  She doesn’t know what it is but it’s green and lush and she can hear the faint cry of animals and birds.

The prince sets two of the platters, domes uncovered now, on the coffee table before taking Clary by the waist and lifting her back into his lap, her spine flush with his front.  As they eat, the prince keeps one arm wrapped around her waist.  The prince finishes his dish first and takes up kissing her neck, suckling her skin with his hot breath blowing across her skin.  She shivers and she can feel his erection growing behind her.  By the time Clary finishes her small meal, still a good quarter of it left because of her lacking appetite, the prince has left a love mark on her neck.

Ignoring him she reaches over to the glass of wine sitting on the cart.  She downs it in one gulp, setting her nerves at ease and soothing the anxiety she feels at what she knows the prince is going to do to her tonight.  She was always a light weight and the alcohol helps so much in way of her anger and other burning emotions.  She turns in his arms to face him, straddling his waist before she takes his lips and kisses him blind.  He tastes like steak and herbs as she deepens the kiss.

Slipping his hands inside her robe, he runs them up and down her body before one rests on the small of her back and presses her closer.  The other one undoes the knot at her hip and lets the robe fall open.  That hand slides up her bare stomach, brushing over her breasts before cupping the back of her neck to hold her close.  She giggles softly as his fingertips tickle her nerves, setting her body on alert.

Pulling back, she shrugs off her robe, pooling it around her waist.  The prince groans but slides his hands down her body to pull the robe back up around her shoulders.  Clary whines, pulling away from his lips but he nuzzles her neck, kissing her sweetly, endearingly.  She rubs herself against his swollen groin and a deep throated moan sounds from his throat.

“Not tonight.  You’re drunk,” he whispers against her skin.  She responds by slipping her hand between them and stroking him through his pants.  He growls but takes her wrist gently away from him, kissing the inside of her wrist.  “I want you sober when I take you,” he says hoarsely.

“But when I’m sober I can’t do this,” she says, stroking her hips against him.  He pulls away from her neck and flips her over onto the couch so he can have some semblance of control.  She bucks her hips up but he pins her down by sitting lightly on her stomach so he doesn’t crush her lungs.  He grasps her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look up at him.  Shame washes through her as he looks at her and she realizes what she just said.

“What do you mean?” he asks, brushing his thumb over her jaw.

“I can’t disobey when I’m sober,” Clary slurs, trying to cover her lies.  “The alcohol overrides the chip in my arm so it doesn’t hurt.”  That’s not entirely a lie, it’s always sore because of the size and all the displacement of her muscles.  But that’s not why it hurts now.

The prince’s black eyes snap in irritation.  “Don’t lie to me, little one,” he says gently.  “I’m sorry your arm hurts,” he says sympathetically, kissing the inside of her left wrist.  “I’ll see if I can get it removed before the three months are up, sweetheart.  I don’t want you to be in pain but I want to know what you can’t do while you’re sober.”

He kisses her cheek then the hollow of her throat.  He nudges her chin with his nose, licking up her jaw and making her shiver.  “I already told you, prince.  My arm hurts when I’m sober and it keeps me subservient.  Why would you want to remove it?” Clary asks, purposely diverting the conversation away from what she can and can’t do when she’s drunk and sober.  Aka, give up her virginity.

The prince traces her lips with his thumb, as though memorizing the skin.  “Because I don’t like to see you in pain.”

Clary closes her eyes as she feels the prince’s warmth pressed against her naked body through the robe.  She likes how he feels pressed against her, so strong and lean.  He’s like a predator ready to pounce.  Desire surges up within her, she wants him to pounce on her.  She wants his fingers caressing her most private areas like he did the other night, she wants to feel his breath ghosting down there, sending shivers through her body.

She actually moans at the onslaught of feelings and images.  And is stunned, she’s never thought of a man like this, never _wanted_ one to touch her.  For obvious reasons, she hasn’t wanted anything to do with men since they are the ones who would beat her in the foster homes, the ones who threw her out of shelters for causing trouble, the ones who captured her against her will and forced her to become an Escort.  So it’s almost appalling that she could want this man right here.

It has to be his physical prowess, nothing more.  She means, what woman wouldn’t want to bed a guy who is the Heir to one of the most powerful countries in the world and has a body made for sin with a deep, lilting accent that seems to caress her very being every time he speaks.  Who wouldn’t want to fuck him?

“Then why won’t you let me relieve your pain?” Clary says, hand trailing down to his groin that is so hard it has to be hurting.  He growls in frustration before grasping her wrist and claiming her lips for a fiery kiss. Clary obligingly scratches her nails over him.  He uses her palm to pleasure himself until he’s panting from it.  Even then, he doesn’t let himself come before he pulls away, sitting back on the couch and pulling Clary up with him.

He sits back with her and turns her around so she’s sitting crossed legged in between the prince’s legs with her back to his front.  He bows his head to nuzzle her neck and she shivers.  He takes both her wrists in his hands and sticks them between her legs, under her robe.

“Now, you naughty girl,” he whispers in her ear, panting heavily.  “I want you to just watch the television and keep your hands to yourself, like a good little girl.”

Clary smiles wistfully as the alcohol runs rampant through her body.  “I’m not a little-” 

She gasps as the prince presses her own fingers to her core, guiding them with his own hands.  She arches back against him, pulling her hands out of his grasp but he growls his disapproval.  Taking her hands back in his, he guides them back down to her core where he slowly massages her clitoris. 

“I told you to keep your hands to yourself,” he growls, pressing harder against her and eliciting a moan.  “This is your punishment for lying to me,” he says, just before she’s about to climax and he draws her hands away from herself, pinning them on her thighs so she can’t relieve the almost painful ache.  She whimpers in protest as the feeling builds but then slowly, torturously dissipates.  He uses her hands once again to pleasure herself until she’s on the edge of climax again.  She whimpers as she tries to get that last stroke in but the prince over powers her and tugs her hands away, pinning them to her thighs again.

“Care to tell me the truth now?” he asks, squeezing her hands tightly as he kisses her neck.  She whimpers again as his hot tongue draws up the side of her neck and he finishes by blowing a breath behind her ear.  She shudders powerfully as it’s almost enough to push her into bliss.  Damn him for being just as good as her at sexual encounters.

“I already did,” she whines, her head fuzzy from her drink.  She starts panting as his nose brushes over her skin and he kisses her ear.  He moves down and lightly nips at her shoulder.  She tilts her head to the side as he licks up her throat.

“No, little one, you didn’t.  I’m not stupid and I’m not blind.  I want you to tell me.  What do you have to lose?”

“My nonexistent freedom, my dignity, my virginity,” Clary whispers, her tone turning serious before the alcohol takes over again.  “You’re being too serious,” she giggles, leaning her head back on his shoulder to look up at him with a wide grin.  “You need to smile more.”  She gasps as a thought comes to her, she pulls out of the prince’s grasp and tugs him off the couch, dragging him over to the balcony.

“Where are we going?” he asks, complying with being dragged along behind his little bought whore.

“We’re going to talk to the stars,” she says excitedly as she opens the balcony doors.  She finds one of the security guards standing out there.  She pulls up short and frowns at the guard, getting distracted but the buzz in her head makes it all go away, her worry, her anger, her fear.  “He’s so serious,” Clary whispers loudly to the prince who only chuckles softly.  “You need to smile more too,” she says to the guard.  “You’re just like the prince, he never smiles either.  Well, except during sex,” Clary blurts and keeps on going.  “Why is it all men smile like wild dogs when they see a naked woman?  It’s not like there’s anything to them.  If a woman’s getting naked with you, you either bought her or she’s just as horny as you.  That’s nothing to smile about.  I mean really,” she says and drops her robe to expose her nakedness.  The guard averts his eyes.  Clary looks down at herself.  “What’s so special about all of this, you can just pleasure yourself you know.  You don’t need another person.  Which reminds me, where the hell does Night’s House get it’s justification to stealing little girls off the street?  Really, they can’t just rip girls from their own lives and force them into prostitution.  Fuck Escorts!  Well, you do fuck Escorts, but really we’re all just glorified whores, strippers and prostitutes for the enjoyment of Royals-”

The prince cuts her off by wrapping the robe back around her and sweeping her up into his arms.  “I think it’s bedtime for you,” he says and some part of her expects him to be angry but she just finds a small smile on his lips.

She pouts as he carries her back inside and closes the door to the balcony with his foot.  “I’m not twelve, your Highness.  I didn’t even have a bedtime then.  All I got was a bedmate to show me how to screw people, to screw you specifically now that you’re my patron, until I passed out from exhaustion.  Are you going to show me how to screw people until I pass out?  I really don’t feel like it.  I had a bedmate until I was sixteen.  Then I finally got to sleep alone until I was sold to you.  I even got to sleep in,” Clary whispers conspiratorially.

The prince smiles down at her as he walks past the couch to the hallway.  “And how late did you get to sleep?”

“6:30 a.m.”

He looks shocked.

“It’s so nice to sleep in but here, everything is messed up.  My body tells me it needs to get up at sunrise, my mind tells me sleep in to New York time and my internal clock agrees with ‘no, no, you need to sleep in so the prince can have a nice morning screw.’”

The prince actually laughs at that as he pushes open the door to his room and lays her under the covers, stripping her of the robe.  He strips his own body down to his boxers beneath the covers and pulls her against him, wrapping a leg around hers. 

“Why is it that I’ve gone to bed naked the past two nights?  Is it because men like the feel of a woman’s skin pressed up against theirs?  Or do you just like making me feel vulnerable?”

He reaches up and gently places his hand against her mouth.  “I’m trying to sleep, little one.  You’re a very chatty drunk but I need to sleep.  Stay until I fall asleep but then you can go watch T.V. or watch the stars.  The guards already know not to let you out, they’re not even allowed to let me out but be quiet about it,” he whispers, kissing her shoulder blade.

“But don’t you want to wake up wrapped around me?” she asks.  “Where are the dogs?”  She feels him smile against her back as he buries his face against her but he lifts up his hand to her lips again, she nips his fingertips.

“Yes, I want to be wrapped around you and I want to be inside you but if you can just be quiet until I go to sleep that would be perfect.”  He kisses her shoulder blade again, kissing up her spine. 

Clary settles down against the prince and laces her fingers through the ones close to her mouth.  “Fine.  Goodnight, my prince.”

“Goodnight little one.  I’ll see you in the morning,” he murmurs before she feels him relax against her back.  His breathing evens out even as the alcohol continues pumping through her system.  Oh Angel, what had she just said?!  She just told him about her time in Night’s House.  She’d vowed never to tell anyone about her horrid time there.  At least she didn’t tell him about the beatings or Valentine or the disgrace and disgust shown toward her.  She’d also undressed on the balcony but hey, she’s a whore, who cares who sees her naked?  But she’d spilled her guts about her opinion on being a whore.  Maybe he thinks nothing of it because she’s drunk.  All she can do is hope at this point.

Ugly memories rise unbidden at the thought of what she didn’t disclose to the prince, all the times in her foster homes, all the abuse she got from being short and different.  No one in New York in any of the homes or the people she saw had red hair.  So she got teased relentlessly about it.  She remembers the crack of a leather belt, the close confines of a time out box where she would be locked for days for disobedience.  The days of hunger.  The nights of fleeing from trolling gang members who want to have ‘fun’ with a defenseless little girl.

She shivers in disgust as she realizes the man holding her now is no better than those gang members, he just has the money and power to buy her virginity and the influence to not call it rape.  That’s what it is though, nonconsensual sex that she’s being forced into.  It’s either the pain of deflowering or the paralyzing pain of her chip or, if she’s sent back, Valentine.

Still slightly tipsy, she slowly untangles her legs from the prince’s and unlaces her fingers from his hand.  She slips from the bed, drawing the covers back over the prince before walking to the closet to pull on one of her dorm shirts and a pair of light sweat pants.  She also slips on a bra, just for good measure, finally feeling decent.  She walks out to the family room, planning on heading for the balcony but feeling too trapped turns instead to the door.  She’s stopped as she opens the door by two security guards.

“Sorry, Ms. Clarissa.  You’re not allowed to leave.  The castle is still on lock down for another three hours,” one of the men say, blocking her path.

“Oh c’mon,” Clary says, batting her eye lashes and letting a slow, seductive smirk grace her lips.  “I was just going for a little walk to tire myself out.”  The guard looks doubtful.  “It’s not like I’m a Royal, I’m not in any danger because I’m not a target.   Please?”  The guard still doesn’t look convinced so she steps up to him, craning her neck and trailing her hand down the front of his suit.  “I’m an Escort, not royalty.  If something happens to me, the prince can buy another one.  What’s the harm in letting me out for a walk?” Clary asks innocently.

He immediately melts at her look.  That’s one thing Clary can be grateful Valentine taught to her: she can use her body and looks to get away with murder.

“Alright, but be back within the hour.”

“Yes sir,” she says, mocking seriousness and saluting him before smiling and walking away down the corridor and across the bridge.  Clary descends in the elevator, not really sure where she’s going but planning on just wandering until she can get the memories out of her head.  They were painful to experience and she has no lust for reliving them.  She can feel her body twinge where her scars used to be, before Valentine had the surgery done, with every memory, every beating.

If she could only shut it out, all of it, she might be able to live with some sense of peace but knowing the prince is losing his patience even if he has the grace not to show it, she won’t last much longer as a virgin.  She feels like she’s drowning in her own memories and fears, her anger.  Her chip sparks a few times as she wanders the grand halls but she doesn’t notice as she’s lost in thought.

There’s nothing left to say now really that will save her from all this.  Maybe if her parents had kept her or she’d taken a different turn that day when Valentine’s men were after her, maybe she wouldn’t be a slave to men.  Maybe…


	4. The Mind's War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”  
> “Don’t apologize for something you have no control over.”

Clary found a garden in the central part of the castle.  She’s not really sure how to get back but doesn’t care at the moment as she stares at her reflection in the clear blue liquid.  The water silently laps at the small shore of the enclosed garden.  It’s just like the trench of liquid she saw when she first got here and it’s amazing.  She has her feet dipped in and it’s every bit as amazing as she thought it would be.  A glass dome overhead lets in the moonlight that reflects in the pond and makes water dance on the leaves of all the different trees.  She didn’t know there were so many different kinds.  They all look so different, in height and texture and smell.  She walked around earlier and ran her hands over the surfaces, feeling the roughness of some and the smoothness of others.  It’d amazed her.

But staring at her reflection, the messy red hair, still managing to look perfect in a ‘just rolled out of bed way,’ her bright green eyes duller than they used to be as a child, dulled and beaten down by captivity and the confines of her lavish prison, she can see the beauty Valentine always told her about but it seems fake, even without her makeup and primed and primped hair and body.  She feels so _fake._   Everything about her is fake.  Her expressions, her feelings, her beauty, her happiness, her submission.  She doesn’t even feel right in her own body, she never has ever since Valentine had her scars removed.  Those scars had been a part of her.

Valentine hadn’t bothered taking away the one on the back of her neck though, saying that it was hidden by her hairline and she treasures that mark.  If she brushes it just right, she can feel the indent and it comforts her, reminds her that she was an actual person once and not just a slave.  How a slave could have had something before their imprisonment.  She can’t help but mourn the days that she was free and regret the day that cast her into hell.  She’s been stripped bare and Valentine might as well have clamped a dog collar around her neck.  She could have become something more.  Could have gone to public school and gotten into college with an art scholarship.  She could have made a life for herself, she could have been free.  But it all comes back to that one all-damning day, when Valentine found her.

It’s probably been over an hour and she’ll get in trouble if she doesn’t get back before the prince wakes up but at the moment she doesn’t really want to go back and climb into bed with her jailor.  It feels wrong and discomforting to be forced into Stockholm Syndrome.  It’s sick and vindictive how the Night’s House manipulates their Escorts to actually believe their slavery is beneficial to themselves.  She digs her nails into her bandaged wrist.  She wishes she could just rip the chip out.  Her nails dig deeper until she feels warmth seep into the bandage.

She pauses in her thoughts, her attempt to rip open her wrist and free herself form at least one prison, as she hears soft footsteps behind her in the gritty, tan dirt beneath her and she turns, trying not to make any noises as to alert the wanderer to her presence.  Her muscles are coiled and ready to spring, an instinct she’d developed on the streets and hasn’t lost since but relaxes as she sees the prince’s page boy, Simon.

“Simon?” she calls.  He stops walking and looks over at her before cocking his head to the side.

“Clary?”  She’s shocked as she hears her nickname.  One that hasn’t been used in years because of the formality and refinement of the Night’s House.  It’s sort of a relief to have someone call her that.  She smiles at the good feeling it brings.

“What are you doing up so late?” she asks as he comes over to sit beside her.

“I could ask the same of you,” he points out.  Clary blushes in shame as thoughts and morbid feelings wash through her.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she murmurs, not entirely a lie.

“I don’t usually go to sleep until around one,” Simon says as he spreads his long, skinny legs out before him.  He really is quite awkward but in that cute geek sort of way.  It’s quite a novelty to see someone who isn’t graceful and completely in control of their own body.  Night’s House Escorts are perfect in every way about their bodies since that is what they use to please their patrons.  It’s completely unacceptable to have a clumsy Escort, it’s _displeasing_.  So says all the previous clients who’ve had a clumsy Escort.

“Why not?” Clary asks.  She doesn’t like to sleep, usually because it reminds her of all her job entitles.  It reminds her that she’ll have to share a bed with the prince for the rest of her life.  How she’ll never have freedom again.  It’s unsettling for her to share one of the most private places that isn’t her body with someone she despises.

“Page duties,” Simon says, leaning back on the ground and tucking his arms behind his head.  “I have to make sure all the prince’s affairs are in order; that he knows about them.  I have to tend the horses, the dogs, run around the castle doing general gopher stuff mostly and it doesn’t get done until midnight then I use the extra hour to catch up on manga and sci-fi movies.”

Clary cocks her head to the side, looking down at the long, scrawny body that is Simon’s.  “What is ‘sci-fi movies’ and ‘manga’?” she asks, they sound like some odd disease.

Simon looks up at her, his big brown eyes curious and endearing as they regard her.  He gives her a confused smile.  “What do you mean ‘what are they?’  Did you live under a rock in New York?”

Clary’s breath hitches involuntarily at Simon’s innocent question.  No, she didn’t live under a rock, just in a prison where she was forced to sell her most sacred value against her will.  She feels so stupid and ignorant here because instead of being a normal teenager who learns about electronics and goes to school, someone who dates a boy for the first time and experiences that first heartbreak.  Being that someone who has a mother and father to go home to and have them hold you while you eat a carton of ice cream.  Instead of being someone who gets to choose who they love, who breaks their heart and who they give themselves completely to, she is a sealed and sold, glorified whore with no more rights than a paper weight.  It’s almost enough to make her burst into tears at the loss of everything she could have had but she refuses to cry.  What’s the point when there’s no hope for a second chance anyway?

“No, I was just a shut in,” Clary murmurs, turning back to the reflective water that laps at her ankles.

“Well,” Simon continues, oblivious to her inner turmoil that she strives to hide.  “They’re these things, that, um… like books with pictures… um and aliens… uh.  I don’t really know how to explain them.  I’ll have to show you sometime.”

Clary smiles at the thought.  No one ever bothered with her before, the little redhead who always had her nose in a sketch book or head in the clouds.  But to know that this boy is willing to share something he loves with a complete and total stranger, it warms her frozen heart, if only a little.

“I’d like that,” she says, remembering all the times when she’d asked to play with the other kids and they’d thrown her away.  Rejected her because she was different.

“Clary,” Simon asks quietly, his voice taking on a lower, almost timid tone as he sits up and turns to her.  Even sitting down he’s so much taller than her, not as tall as the prince but almost.

“Hmm?” she hums without turning from the sparkling water’s surface.

“If you don’t mind my asking, did you happen to know a girl about your age with long black hair and brown eyes so dark they almost looked black?  She’d always wear a large ruby pendant too, around her neck.  Her name’s Isabelle,” Simon asks and Clary can hear the raw hurt and anguish in his voice, emotions that have been reflected too many times in her own.

“Yeah, I did.  She was my best friend,” Clary says tiredly, remembering how Izzy would act like a mother to her even though she was only a year older than her.  Izzy would always be there when she was confused or hurt or she just needed someone to talk to about all the stress being pressed upon her.  She was heartbroken when the Portuguese prince had bought her, after the same prince’s sister had bought Alec.  She’s never felt as lonely as she did the month she was without those two.  They’d been closer to her than her own soul.

“Really?” Simon asks, sitting straight up.  She can see the hopefulness on his face and it breaks her heart to know that Izzy is now unreachable to both of them.   “How—how was she?  Did she miss me?  Is she okay?  Was she,” he gulps and drops his eyes to the ground.  “Was she sold?”

Clary pauses, deliberating if she should tell him the truth, by which his reaction she knows would break his heart.  She doesn’t want to tell him how they had to beat Izzy at least once a day for the first year Clary was there because she wouldn’t conform, then at the auction.  Before that, before Clary was taken, Izzy had been there years before with her brother and still neither of them had given in.  It was only when Clary arrived she convinced them to stop because she hated seeing them hurt on a daily basis even though Clary was ever the hypocrite.  _Do as I say not as I do._   Clary had gotten many a beating to last her a life time at Night’s House but she hated coming into her friends’ rooms and finding them black and blue.

She still feels guilty because she is who essentially got them sold off to Portugal.  She convinced them to behave to the degree where they wouldn’t be hurt anymore and that made them selling material.  Especially with how stunning the two siblings looked.  No one could resist Alec’s eyes, not even her.  And Izzy was just naturally, majestically beautiful.  Clary knows that she is the one who sealed her friends’ fates.

“What does she mean to you?”  Clary asks sheepishly.  The guilt rises up and wraps steel bands around her heart, sending cold chills through her blood.

Simon’s head is bowed, his knees pulled up to his chest and arms draped over his knees in a look of utter defeat and torment.  One she’s all too familiar with.  “She means everything to me,” he whispers in a wretched voice, his head hung low and breathing shallow.

Clary inhales deeply, bracing herself for the ugly truth she’s going to tell her possible friend.  She hates hurting people, even if it’s the people who buy and sell and use her.  She’s been hurt so many times that she would never wish it on anyone else.

“Yes, she’s been sold,” Clary murmurs quietly.  “She was… fine at least when I last saw her.”

“Do you know who she was sold to?” Simon asks, straightening up instantly, desperation dripping from his voice.  She knows why.  If you know the Escort and you want them back, there’s only one way to release them from their captivity. 

Once a child is taken into Night’s House custody, they’re moved to a separate base location, far away from their country of origin.  Night’s House makes sure to keep their identity concealed by using injections of memory serum to erase their previous life, at least names, places, pictures, not habits or mannerisms, which help in preparing them for royalty, from the Escorts mind.  The only thing they tell the Escorts are their first names.

None of this was done to her because she’s an orphan whom no one cares about enough to search for her.  She only knows about this because she’s seen so many different Escorts come in over the years not remembering who they are and thinking themselves born into the business.  Only the really mentally resilient remember something and then only that they weren’t born to slavery.  Izzy and Alec were two of those.

Night’s House keeps all the blood work, heritage and Royalty records locked up so no one can access them.  For if the previous family of an Escort is searching for them and has found the base House, they can go to them and reclaim the Escort if they can prove they’re blood relatives.  If the Escort has already been sold, it’s even more difficult.

Night’s House doesn’t disclose the information about who they sold the Escort to under confidentiality clauses so the family has to find who ever bought the Escort through the Royal system and even then it’s hard.  No one usually documents the existence of the Escorts in courts so they have to go through the black market systems and spies to find out where they are.  Once they find them, they have to negotiate with the Royal family who bought the Escort, then the patron has to go through the trouble of filing for a replacement.

Once the searching Royal family finds the Escort they have to prove the blood relation through papers.  Then the Escort has to have their memories replenished from the serum.  Depending on their former lives and how well the patron has treated the Escort, the Escort makes the decision to stay or go back with their family.  But if the patron has married the Escort, the countries have to work out treaties and alliances based on the marriage, if the Escort wants to continue the marriage and if the country of the Escort’s family wants an alliance with the country of the patron the Escort previously belonged to.  If not, they file for divorce, political tensions, blah, blah, blah.

It turns out to be a really big mess for both countries.  That’s why most families who lose their children don’t bother searching for their children after they turn eighteen, when they’re sold off.  It’s much easier to give up the search after eighteen for political differences.  Clary’s always found it sad.

“The Portuguese prince and Alec to the Portuguese princess,” Clary says weakly.

Simon’s eyes widen and a grin breaks across his face.  He jumps up and tackles Clary into a hug.  “Clary you have no idea how much that means to me.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.”  He pulls back and gives her a big kiss on her cheek.  “I love you so much for this,” he says before bolting away from her, back through the entrance to the garden.

Clary sits stunned on the ground, staring after Simon.  What does he mean?  He’s not royalty, he can’t have any claim over getting Izzy back.  Or Alec.  He’s a page boy, he can’t even come close to having any claim or right to take back those two Escorts, especially with their value and reputation.  Turning back to the water she stares at her reflection.

Images flash in her mind, causing a splitting headache to rage up in the back of her head.  The alcohol has died down, letting her regain most of her rational thought but that doesn’t make what she did any less painful.  Izzy and Alec knew that it was her who caused them to be sold but they never blamed her, even though she blames herself.  That’s why she loved them so much, they were her family when everyone else had abandoned her.

Closing her eyes, she shakes her head to banish those dark thoughts to the recesses of her mind.  She stands, feeling slightly woozy and completely worthless and tries to find her way back to the prince’s suite.  She treads lightly through the hallways, her bare feet padding against the seamless cool marble floor.  She eventually finds the elevator leading back to the suites.  She leans against the mirrors in the elevator as the doors open to the bridge over the throne room.

She can see the gray streams of morning dawn flooding in and embracing the castle infrastructure like an old friend.  She slinks back to the suite up the glass staircase, finding the guards gone, she slowly turns the knob of the door but freezes as she feels a cold breath blow down the back of her neck and a sharp prick.  Goosebumps rise along her skin as she scratches the back of her neck and spins around, expecting to find someone behind her but she sees nothing but shadows, cast by the morning light coming in from the outer hallway.  She turns around, blowing a breath out between her teeth.  It’s the alcohol.

Letting the door fall open she sees an empty living room, not even the dogs present as she closes the door.  How could she let her friends get sold like that?  Even if the penalty after sixteen years of insubordination is death.  Izzy would have fought till the end, Alec would have but she asked them to stop because she didn’t want to see them hurt.  And her own selfishness condemned them to a lifetime of servitude.

Her throat starts to close off, like icy hands cutting off her air.  Her eyes sting with tears but she refuses to cry, refuses to show weakness when it’s no use.  She shuffles down to the prince’s room about to walk in to go back to sleep but thinks better of it.  She doesn’t want to touch her patron when she doesn’t have to.  It feels sick, makes her sick when she has to cuddle up and play lapdog when what she wants to do is turn around and bite the hand that’s playing with her.

She turns and walks to the opposite door, into her own bedroom.  The sheets are turned down, baring lush, deep purple satin covers.  There’s a set of large, grey cotton pajama bottoms and tank top.  She doesn’t bother changing as she slides into bed, pulling the covers over her head and falling into sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Jonathan rolls over in bed, feeling around for his Clary but the cold spot on the bed where her warm body was when he fell asleep tells him that she’s already gone.  He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before opening his eyes.  Looking over at his alarm clock he sees it’s a little after nine, two and a half hours after what his little redhead told him she was allowed to sleep in to.  He feels a twinge in his chest at her careless words last night.

_But when I’m sober I can’t do this._   She’d lied to him but he can’t figure out about what.  He should get her drunk again, he means really drunk, because she held up pretty well under the one glass, to find out what she was lying to him about.  He could always use the chip in her wrist…

No, he’s not that cruel.  He saw the pain on her face yesterday after she’d gotten out of the shower.  The fear in her stance as she’d sunken to the floor, it was almost enough to block out the raging hard on he’d developed at seeing her kneeling, naked and vulnerable at his feet.  He’d still felt it like fire as he’d reached down to draw her up.  He knows she didn’t slip in the shower, that’s not what caused those wounds.  She’d been gripping her wrist so tightly she cut the skin, the little crescent shapes telling her nails’ presence on her skin.  What made her do that, Jonathan is still debating.

She’s scared of him, he knows this; he saw it as she flinched at his touch.  He wants to go find her now and draw her close.  He wants to just hold her and reassure her that he’ll never hurt her, ever.  But it will take more than just words to get her to trust him.  He has no clue what Valentine did to her at the Night’s House but if it’s anything like he’s seen, Clary is now scarred for life.  And he hates that, hates that he couldn’t have gotten to her sooner.

She tries to keep herself in line but he can see how hard it is for her.  How hard it is to conform to orders.  She’s her mother’s daughter alright.  Just the same spitfire, same spirit and it turns him on like hell.

Rolling out of bed, he pulls on a t-shirt before leaving his room in search of his companion.  Walking into the kitchen, he sees the message board on the fridge is blinking red.  Pressing the screen, a recording of the queen pops up, saying that everyone needs to be ready by noon because the equestrian tournament was back on.  Flicking the recording to the side he goes into options and turns on the coffee maker with the touch of a button.  Two straight black coffees.  Leaning against the counter as the coffee brews, he looks around his apartment.

There’s no sign of Clary.  Frowning, he walks over to the balcony and opens the doors.  When all he finds is the morning sun shining in through his windows over the peaks of the mountains he turns back and closes the doors.  He walks over to the side table by his couch and picks up his glass tablet, much like the one he received for Clary, to control the chip, not that he’ll ever use it for anything other than monitoring her health, and flips to the security icon.  Paging the head of security through a video conference, the man picks up.

“Good morning, your Highness,” he says in a low gruff voice.

“Morning,” Jonathan replies.  “Who was posted at my door last night?”

The man turns away for a moment, probably to search through his digital records then turns back to him.  “Pangborn and Blackwell, your Highness.”

“Page them for me,” Jonathan says, minimizing the screen with the head of security as two sound waves that represent the guards’ voices through their ear pieces, appear on screen.

“Your Highness,” they both say in unison, the sound waves moving sporadically with the different tones of their voices.  That’s really getting on his nerves.  ‘Your Highness.’  He much rather prefers it when Clary calls him ‘my prince,’ but what he really would like is if she called him by his name.  It’s going to take more coaxing though.  She’s not used to calling Royals by their names, it’s improper.  And really starting to tick him off.

“Where did Ms. Clarissa go last night?”

There’s silence from both of them for a long moment before one, Pangborn, replies.  “She said she wanted to go for a walk around the castle to tire herself out, Highness.  I told her to be back within the hour but she didn’t come back before we were relieved of position three hours later.”

A twinge of anger shoots through his blood at the news.  “Isn’t this castle on lockdown?”  Jonathan asks irately.

“Yes, your Highness.”

“And were you or were you not supposed to let anyone, and that means _anyone,_ out of their rooms after nine for the final safety lockdown?”  Jonathan’s voice has become edged like the side of a razor blade, capable of slitting a man’s throat.  If Clary is still wandering the castle unprotected after she was shot, he’s going to skin the guards and hang them out for the birds.  Well, he’s going to do that anyway for letting her out in the first place.

“We were not, Highness,” both guards say.

“And what did you do?”  Jonathan asks, feeling like a kindergarten teacher scolding students for putting crayons up their noses.

“We let her out.”

“That’s right,” Jonathan says with mock enthusiasm before flicking both sound waves off screen, ending the calls and re-enlarging the captain’s, head of security, picture.  “Bring up the security footage from my apartment around midnight,” he orders and a video feed of his front door to the apartment pops up in full color.  The feed runs through about two minutes of blank feed then he plays it normal speed as he sees Clary come out to the living room in a baggy shirt and sweat pants.

The guard stops her at the door and there being no audio on the feed he can’t hear what she’s saying but the guard eventually lets her out.  The door closes on her perfect ass and he fast forwards through about six hours of nothing.  The dawn light shows in the feed as Clary opens the door again.  He plays it normal speed and watches as she walks in, looking shaken.  He can see dark circles under her eyes and a haunted look on her face.  Her shoulders are slumped as she closes the door behind her, pauses to look around and heads down the hall to where his bedroom is.

She pauses at the door, hand on the knob for a moment before she seems to think better of it and turns to the bedroom he had set up for her for just this purpose, whether she didn’t want to wake him or she didn’t want to sleep with him.  He doesn’t care, that’s why he had the room set up.  He thanks the captain before ending the call and setting the tablet back on the table.

He looks over at the coffee maker to see it deposit one cup on the counter and draw another up from beneath to start a new cup.  He turns and walks toward Clary’s bedroom, meaning to just glance inside to make sure she’s there but stops as he sees the messy sheets and the sprawled, unconscious girl atop them, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, the morning sunlight casting shadows across her from the window.  He frowns and walks over to the bed where the small woman is lying.

Her leg is thrown over top the deep purple comforter with her red hair fanned out around her face, which is paler than usual.  There’s a sheen of sweat covering her body and the sweat pants he saw from the security footage have been kicked down to her ankles revealing her bare naked butt and triangle of dark red curls between her thighs.  On her side she has one arm stretched out in front of her while the other is bent under the side of her head.  He can see her bra flung onto the pillow beside her face and half the comforter hangs off the bed while the other half is curved up her body and resting on her torso.  Her face is scrunched up as if in pain.

Before it can become a real distraction, he pulls her sweat pants back up her legs to cover the dark red curls, which immediately causes Clary to stir.  She starts shifting uneasily on the bed, making whimpering sounds of discomfort so he strips the pants completely from her and avoids looking down to where he wants to bury himself to the hilt in her warm, tight body.  She settles back down as the pants leave her and Jonathan leans over her to press a wrist to her forehead.

She makes a soft sound of protest, followed by heavy breathing as her forehead boils under his wrist.  He reaches over to the bedside table where an identical glass tablet to the one in the living room is embedded in the wall, as is the one in his room, and presses the call button for Will, his uncle twice removed or something to that affect.  He still doesn’t know why Will would prefer to be a doctor, helping other people, when he could be waited on hand and foot as the Duke.  Of course he still retains his title and lands but he is much more modest about his standings.

Based on the security footage, Clary’s only gotten three hours of sleep, which he hates to disturb but he kneels on the bed and brushes Clary’s cheek with his knuckles.  Her slightly parted lips are begging for another kiss that he would happily bestow if he knew what she has isn’t contagious but for now he contents himself with kissing her cheek to wake her up.  She’ll probably have a hangover and a nasty one based on last night’s strip tease.  That had set him so on edge it’d made him stiffer than a wooden plank and had shot his desire so far through the roof, the stars Clary had wanted to talk to would have felt it.

He wants so badly to bury himself so deep inside her that she’ll be blind from it but he knows her adversity to giving herself over to him is strong.  And he doesn’t want to force it on her, especially given who she is.  He wants to ease the idea of it onto her then tease her so much that she’ll be the one begging for him.  Just the way he likes it.

He kisses her other cheek, murmuring good mornings in her ear before she finally peels her eyes open to small slits.  Looking at the green that flares within her irises, they’re blazing, bright and vibrant, with an unhealthy glow to them, no matter how beautiful they are.  She reaches her hand up and runs it down his chest, picking at his hem like he’s not the one in the shirt.  Her bottom lip is stuck out and he wants to lean down and suck on it but holds himself back.

“How are you feeling this morning?” he asks and Clary gives him an absolutely stunned look, like no one’s ever asked her about her wellbeing.

“I-I feel fine,” she stutters, her voice raw and scratchy but still completely attractive to him.  He really needs to teach her to stop lying to him, it’s unbecoming.

“Don’t lie to me.  I don’t care what the Night’s House rules are.  You’re mine now so my rules are to be abided by.”  He knows she’s only lying because Escorts aren’t supposed to draw attention to themselves or their needs.  Their only purpose is to serve others.  But he won’t have that here, if Clary’s sick and needs to be taken care of, he’ll take care of her.  No ifs, ands or buts about it.

Clary pouts, making Jonathan lean down unconsciously with how much he wants to claim her lips and taste her.  He can see the indecision on her face as she fights against the training ingrained into her mind.  What he’s asking goes against the strict set of rules she’s lived under for the past six years.

“Nothing’s going to happen if you don’t feel well,” Jonathan soothes, smoothing her hair back from her eyes, squinted as they are at the moment.  “We’ll just bring in the medic and make you feel better.”

That statement seems to set off fear in her, the reason he has no clue, but her eyes fly open, turning wide before she slinks back on the bed away from him.  She’s shaking, trembling against the bed.  Her eyes close in pain as she thrashes on the bed, trying to get away from him.  She murmurs something about needles and Valentine and being sorry.  He frowns at her reaction.  What did Valentine do to her?

She’s trying to edge back against the headboard, frantic as her breathing quickens but Jonathan swings his leg over her febrile body.  He gently takes her wrists and pins them beside her head to prevent her from hurting him or herself.   Kneeling over her like this, with her bottom half bare to him, makes fire rush up his body, setting his body ablaze.  He can feel himself getting harder under his boxers.  Practically salivating over the prospect of taking his flower for himself, he lets his eyes flick down to the triangle of moist curls.  He can practically feel himself slide into her with slow, meticulous movements to rack up as much pleasure for the both of them as possible.

Shaking his head and tearing his gaze away from that part of her body, he looks back up at her terrified face.  She’s stopped thrashing, her eyes glazed as she stares at him in terror. She seems to be waiting in anticipation for him to strike.  Instead he leans down and grazes his nose up the side of her neck, which seems to finitely calm her, the tension leaking from her muscles ever so slightly.  Placing a kiss beneath her earlobe, he makes her shudder; he leans back on his knees, her wrists still pinned beside her head.

“Tell me what’s wrong.  Nothing’s going to happen to you, I promise,” he says softly, slowly removing his grip from her wrists.  She leaves them where he put them as her lips part in a pant.

            She still looks resistant to answer but after a moment of staring up at him, she sighs raggedly, like she’s on the edge of a cough.  “My stomach feels like it’s being ripped out,” she says quietly, hoarsely as though it physically hurts to tell him something is wrong with her.  Like she’s condemning herself.  “My throat hurts; I’m really hot.”  _Oh yes, you are._ An image, a memory really, of her writhing in pleasure beneath him flashes across his mind. _“_ My body aches.”  He can make her body ache in more ways than one.  Just the way his groin is aching for a taste of her now.  He’s snapped from his sexual fantasy when she gasps, her eyes unfocused.  “No, I’m fine.  I’m sorry, there’s nothing wrong,” she cries, thrashing again.  “Please don’t.”  Tears slip from the corners of her eyes.  “I’m sorry!”

Jonathan frowns, taking her face in his hands.  “Clarissa, look at me.  Come back.  I’m right here.”  Her breathing is ragged and her eyes remain unfocused.  She flinches, body arching off the bed.  “Clarissa!” he snaps, getting her attention.  Her eyes flicker back to his.  In a soft voice, he says, “I’m right here.  You’re safe.”

He leans down and brushes his lips over her forehead, which is broiling.  “I’ll make sure you’re healthy in no time.  Okay?” he whispers quietly, avoiding the phrase ‘make you better.’

“I’m sorry,” she whispers hoarsely, and he knows she’s speaking to him, not the ghosts of her past.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she pleads, an exhausted sob wracking her chest.

“Oh, little flower,” he soothes, brushing her tears away with his thumbs.  “Don’t apologize.  Don’t ever apologize.  You never need to apologize again,” he says quietly, his heart breaking.  He feels as though he’s treading on thin ice, so not to scare the beautiful cornered animal he has pinned to a bed, and _vulnerable._   The mere thought of what he could do to her right now pours molten lava through his veins.  But he brushes them aside as he stares at her, trying to tell her she’s safe.

Clary nods timidly, shakily, before turning her head to the side.  Her eyelids flutter and her body falls limp, passed out.  Well, not what he was expecting he can’t grudge her sleep when she’s sick.  He rolls to the side, splaying out on the bed beside her and feeling her unnatural body heat.  This is where he’s wanted to be for forever.  In the bed of his beautiful woman, whom he can care for and have for the rest of his life.  He closes his eyes, savoring the feel of his woman, his Clary lying beside him.

She can become unpredictable and be so spastic that it makes his head spin, just like she is.  He’s imagined her caresses are gentle and meaningful even though he knows how much it pains her to do so.  Her mere touch can light up every hormone he possesses.  Her gentleness and ingenuity can warm his heart to the point of heat flooding his veins after so many years of loneliness and politics.

He’s always wanted Clary, has since he was eight years old.  It’s always been Clary.  Playmate or lover.

He rolls on his side, waiting for Will to come tend her, and takes a lock of her red hair, twisting it between his fingers.  Clary rolls over as he plays with her hair and her nose brushes his chin.  “Mm, what are you doing?” Clary whispers to him in the sweetest, softest voice he’s heard from her yet, one that he intends to hear when he’s buried deep inside her.  He draws her up against him, pressing her lower heat against his.

“Just admiring my red beauty,” he says quietly before she nods sleepily and drapes a leg around his.  She drifts back to sleep just as his groin starts to burn painfully.  He can feel her core pressed tight against him and though it pains him to do so, he slowly places Clary’s leg back on the bed and covers her bottom half with a satin bed sheet.  Then he walks out to the living room to answer his door, where he’d heard a knock a moment ago.

Answering it, he sees his uncle, Will, standing in a rumpled button up shirt and wrinkled slacks with his messy midnight hair and stunning blue eyes.  He looks like he’s been up all night.  He eyes his uncle suspiciously.

“Are you alright, Your Grace?” Jonathan asks as he steps aside to let him in.  He doesn’t want a doctor who is addled in any way tending his cherished woman.

Will scrunches his nose.  “You know I don’t like my title.  But fine,” he says.  “I just found out a bit of news that I’ve been waiting for a long time,” Will says with a small, relieved smile on his face.  He holds his medical bag—a sleek black messenger equipped with high tech electronic readers and remedies for just about everything—in his right hand and closes the door with his left.  “Now what can I do for you, your Highness?”

Jonathan makes a face at his uncle’s return fire.  Will knows Jonathan doesn’t like his title either.  But turns and gestures for his uncle to follow.  “Clarissa drank some wine last night and I can’t decide if she has a hangover or something else.  If it’s a hangover, it’s pretty severe and some of her symptoms are out of the ordinary.  She has a raging fever and has pretty much soaked her bed sheets.  She says her stomach feels like it’s being ripped out, her throat hurts and her entire body is sore in general.  She’s slightly delirious too.  She was wandering around the castle last night.”  Will’s look is one of absolutely shock.  No one was supposed to be wandering the castle.  “ _Against_ my orders, and didn’t come back until around six.  So I don’t know if it could be sleep deprivation or just a hangover but I’m not the medical expert,” Jonathan says, stopping in front of Clary’s closed door.  “That would be why I called you, dear uncle.”

“Well, it sounds like she might have salmonella poisoning or the stomach flu but the delirium… I’d have to get a closer look,” Will says, pushing open the door.

Jonathan steps around him to find an empty bed, the deep purple sheets tossed away from the bed.  He scans the room but sees no trace of her.

“Looks like Clarissa’s evaporated,” Will says quietly before they hear a cough from down the hall.  Jonathan turns and takes off down the hall toward the bathroom.  He hears quiet coughs from the other side of the door.  He knocks on the door and the coughs immediately stop.

“Open the door, little one,” Jonathan says, knowing how hard it is for her to admit something is wrong with her, see the fear and pain on her face.  He thinks Valentine beat her for admitting something was wrong.  He has to tread ice, so he uses calm gentle words to let her know she won’t be hurt to admit she needs help.  He grabs the knob and tries to turn it.  He finds it locked and he leans his shoulder against the door.

“Open the door,” he says again, keeping his voice even.  He rattles the door knob again but it still doesn’t budge.  He knocks again and he hears some soft scuffling inside, the toilet flush, something hitting the wall.  He nearly knocks down the door as he hears that but the lock clicks and opens to display a trembling, pale, redheaded girl.  Sweat still beads her skin and her pants are still gone.

Will politely averts his eyes.

She looks up at him with big doe eyes, her legs shaking with the effort of trying to stand.  He reaches out to help her stand but she steps back and places a hand to her mouth.  She coughs and her eyes watch her hand for a moment before she drops it.  She’s still shaking and her breathing is heavy, skin pale.  He steps forward just as her eyes roll back into her head and he reaches out to catch her.  He gathers her against him and turns to Will who stands with a calculating glance at the girl in his arms.

“See?” Jonathan says, nodding down at the unconscious girl in his arms.

Will nods.  “Take her to bed, I’ll do a physical.  I also need her vitals tablet that goes to her chip.”

Jonathan carries her down the hall to his own bedroom, pushing open the door and setting her down on top of his bed.  He pulls a blanket over her lower half and what stops him is the sight of her palm, covered in dots of red.  He grabs her wrist as Will turns the light on.  He sees the blood covering her hand, the hand she coughed into.

“Will, she coughed up blood.  I don’t think it’s a hangover,” Jonathan says, wiping away the wet dribble of blood on her palm.  His uncle rushes over and takes Clary’s palm from his hand and examines it.  Without looking up he snaps at Jonathan.

“Get her tablet.”

Jonathan reaches over to his nightstand and grabs the small glass tablet.  Flipping it on, he sees high numbers and flashing colors, indicating that something is completely wrong with his redhead.  Will takes the tablet and taps several different things.  He digs in his bag and pulls out a needle.  Shaking a bottle of thick orange liquid he recognizes as sealant.  He was injected with it when he’d fallen off a horse and broken his rib.  The rib had punctured his lung and he’d had that injected into his blood stream to seal his lung and secure his rib back into place.

Knowing that Clary has internal bleeding, the sealant should close up any internal wounds.  Will sticks the needle into the crook of Clary’s elbow.  When all Clary does is cough blood again, Will pulls out Clary’s tablet and an x-ray tablet.  He holds it over her stomach, then her chest, the images flickering on the screen and flashing red in areas of her anatomy.  Will stows it back in his bag and turns to the tablet that controls Clary’s chip.  He drags his forefinger across the screen, raising the electrical pulse of Clary’s chip.  Before Will can administer the shock, Jonathan grabs his wrist.

“What are you doing?” he snarls.  Jonathan promised himself never to use the chip on Clary.  It’s cruel enough to have a monitoring system forcibly injected into your body but to have it be a punishment as well, he refuses to use it.  Especially after what he saw on her wrist, which is still bandaged.

“There’s something that seems to be a parasite stuck onto her spine at the base of her neck.  _Inside_ her body.   I’m administering a shock to kill the parasite and flush it out of her system.  It’s what’s inciting the fever, sweating, weakness and internal bleeding.  The parasite will kill her if I don’t remove it.  Minutes, Jon.  The shock won’t hurt her more than the parasite,” Will says, softening his voice.  Despite being his uncle twice removed, Will is only a few years older than him, around twenty-eight or twenty-nine.  Yet his uncle can have years of wisdom that Jonathan doesn’t.  And sometimes it’s the other way around.  The two have always been good friends.

Jonathan purses his lips.  “Be sure that it doesn’t.  She’s already got enough problems with it.”

Will nods and turns back to the blinking, colorful screen.  He adds two notches to the electrical shock before he presses the engage and Clary’s eyes fly open as she gasps, her body arching off the bed.

“Get me a trash bin,” Will says suddenly and looks at him with a look of panic.  “If you value your silk sheets get me a trash bin!”

Clary starts coughing violently, holding a hand to her mouth.  Jonathan rushes to his bathroom and grabs his small, chrome trash bin.  He rushes back out and crawls on the behind Clary as she leans to the side.  Curving his arm with the trash bin around her to catch anything, he pulls her hair back away from her face as she coughs up blood.  He wraps an arm around her waist from behind to hold her steady as she finishes coughing and collapses against him in sheer exhaustion.  Her eyes roll back in her head as her body drops against his.  He adjusts to her weight against his chest and looks up to Will who’s standing by the bed.

“She’s fine now.  The contaminant has been flushed from her body; that was the blood in the bin, which I need to process.  The parasite incited a fever, which isn’t contagious, and should last for a few hours before dissipating.  Doctor’s prescription: rest, lots of water and I’ll send up some meds for her.  The sealant’s already taken affect now the parasite is removed.  Don’t move her too much and I would advise not going to the equestrian tournament today.  I can tell Her Majesty if you, yourself aren’t coming but if you are, I wouldn’t advise leaving Clarissa alone.  I might be wrong, but the parasite isn’t native to Idris,” Will says before taking the can from Jonathan.

“I’ll call you later when I get results back on the parasite.  In the meantime, I’d double the guard and stay with her,” Will says.  His eyes flick to her bandaged wrist.  “What’s that?” he says, nodding towards the white gauze.

Jonathan scowls down at the bandage.  “Her chip activated and caused her a lot of pain.  She tried to dig it out.”

Will grimaces and sets the can down, kneeling beside the bed.  “Let me see,” he says.  Jonathan gently extends Clary’s wrist himself, even as her eyes flutter beneath her lids.  Her breathing is ragged while a look of pain passes over her face.

“No,” she moans.  “No.  I’m sorry.”

Jonathan hides the bleeding heart in his chest and cradles her closer while Will, respectfully keeping his gaze away from the strangely intimate moment, unwraps the bloodstained bandage.  Jonathan frowns.  He didn’t think there was blood staining the bandage last night.

When Will removes the bandage, Jonathan sucks in a sharp breath at the bloody mess on her wrist.  The skin is torn and ragged, the crescents deeper and malformed.  He can see a glinting edge of silver just inside the bloody skin.

“Take it out,” Jonathan growls, his eyes blazing with black fire.  His gaze flicks to his uncle’s, furious.  “Take the damn thing out, right now!”

Will only nods before digging in his bag.  He pulls out a scalpel, sterile wipes, tweezers and gloves.  Setting the packaged tools on the nightstand, he goes to his knees instead of crouching and grabs Clary’s tablet.  He clicks a few buttons, turning the language to Idrian so Will can navigate more easily, and eventually comes to a screen that says DEACTIVATE.  Will hands the tablet to Jonathan for his thumbprint, for _validation_ that it’s not the Escort ending their own torture.  Jonathan gladly places his thumb on the glass, turning off the chip that’s been Clary’s bane since the moment she was injected.

Jonathan immediately notices the difference as Clary’s body relaxes against him.  Will wipes his hands down with a sterile wipe and pulls on the gloves.  When the sterile wipes touch Clary’s mangled wrist, her eyes fly open and she starts thrashing.

“No!” she screams.  “No!  No!  Stop!  I’m sorry!”  Her body descends into wracking sobs.  “No!  I’m sorry!”  She struggles, trying to get away but Jonathan tightens his arm around her waist and places his other hand on her forehead to lean her head back against his shoulder.  He scowls when her body melts against his, though she continues to sob, murmuring, “No, please.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.”

Jonathan looks to his uncle, who’s already pulling a needle of sedative from his bag.  Clary jerks when the needle pierces the crook of her elbow.  Her sobbing grows louder, her body radiating unhealthy heat, but soon she falls limp and quiet.  Jonathan holds on to her tightly, burying his face in the crook of her throat.  “Do it,” he mumbles, hiding the tears in Clary’s red hair.

Will nods grimly before wiping away the blood from her wrist.  Even sedated, Clary flinches.  A moan sounds.  Will carefully un-packages his scalpel and makes a clean incision in the mangled wrist directly over the glinting silver.  Picking up his tweezers, Will carefully inserted them in to the incision and began to withdraw the chip.  The longer it takes, the more disgusted Jonathan becomes.  The main body of the chip is round, glinting silver beneath the thin layer of blood coating it.  Connected to it are thin strings, little arms that had wound through Clary’s thin veins and arteries.  And at the end of each are little sparkers, the electric shockers.  Jonathan glares as Will drops the long, octopus like chip into a tin.

Will meticulously sews her wrist back up, rubbing a sealant over her skin to close up the other gouges.  For good measure, he wraps a clean bandage around her wrist.  All that is left is a thin scar across her wrist.  Jonathan doesn’t say anything as Will stands, trash bin and chip in hand before leaving his room with a soft click of the door in the living room.

“By the Angel,” Jonathan murmurs, readjusting Clary under the covers so she rests on the pillows.  First the shooting, then the chip, now the parasite…  She’s had too many burdens as it is.  He’s going to have to basically keep her locked up, guards on her at all times and he sure as hell isn’t going to leave her side now.  It might be difficult, the queen will probably want to eventually drag him off to some political meeting or gala.  The queen definitely won’t let him miss her gala for the U.N.  All Heirs from all the countries have to be present along with the ruling monarch or monarchs.

Clary should be walking by Saturday, which is in three days but he’s not going to leave her side.  The gala is Sunday.  He’ll have to check with security and make sure the guards understand Clary is _not_ allowed to go anywhere unaccompanied ever again, which is only when he’s asleep and she decides to sneak off and take another midnight stroll through the castle.

Clary moans and rolls on her side, facing Jonathan who sits on the bed beside her.  He looks down just as Clary slits her eyelids to look up at him.  “What happened?” she says in a big rush of air.  Her mouth and lips are still bloody, which doesn’t matter to Jonathan, given she could have just died.  Jonathan smiles warmly down at her.

“You’re fine now.  Let me go get a glass of water for you,” he says, leaning down to kiss her nose, where he finds her skin still feverish and clammy.  He retrieves a glass of water and a washcloth before returning to the bedroom where Clary is staring up at the ceiling, looking like she’s concentrating extremely hard.

He walks to the side of the bed and sets the glass of water down before moving to wipe away the blood.  She immediately recoils against the headboard.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice strung as taut as a tight rope.

“Washing away the blood, little one,” he says, letting his voice slip into that silky quality he uses with his younger cousins when they’re scared.

“What blood?”  Clary asks, clearly frustrated, like she can’t remembering anything.  The dark circles under her eyes are pronounced and her face is ghastly pale.  He can tell she’s struggling to stay awake even as they speak.

Jonathan wipes his thumb at the corner of his own lip in a motion to show her where the blood on her own body is.  Clary raises a hand to her lips and finds it comes away bloody.  Fear and panic engulf her green eyes.  This must be absolutely decimating for her.  The training ingrained in her will crush her conscience knowing she’s now gotten shot and sick within ten days of being bought and within those ten days, has still not allowed her patron, that would be him, to take what he bought.  She’s probably scared stiff of what will happen to her.

But Jonathan crawls onto the bed, stroking his hands down her upper arms to calm her.  Her frightened eyes flick up to him and spin at a million miles a minute with all the ideas and fears running through her head.

“You’re okay.  You’re allowed to get sick and take recovery time.  Do you understand?  You’re wellbeing comes above my needs.  I’m not going to punish you for being sick,” Jonathan soothes and Clary only looks half convinced, not even that, as she allows him to use the washcloth and wipe away the blood from her mouth and lips as well as the dribbles down her chest and on her palm.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.  “I’m sorry.  This wasn’t supposed to happen.”  She’s shaking her head, clearly scared for her life and anger washes over him.  He should kill Valentine for doing this to her.

He cups the sides of her face, stroking his thumbs over her cheekbones.  He’s glad to feel her melt slightly under his touch.  She looks up at him and he presses his lips to hers, which have cooled considerably, in a gentle kiss meant to comfort.  She fists her hands in the bed sheets before he lets go.

“Don’t apologize for something you have no control over,” he says tenderly, pulling the covers up around her and dragging pillows over to her while he makes her lay back.  He hovers over her, his body braced on his hands and knees as she looks up at him with regretful, fearful eyes that he so much wishes to comfort but she needs to rest. 

“It’s against the rules though.  I-I have to…”

He holds a finger to her lips to silence her before stress rises.  “You don’t have to do anything except please me,” he says and takes his finger away to brush his hand through her thick, crimson curls.  “And right now what would please me is for you to relax and get better.  Alright?”

Clary nods silently, still looking up at him with some fear dancing in the deeper green flecks of her eyes.  He leans down again and claims her lips in a fiery kiss to crush the fear, wanting her to feel safe in her little haven he’ll make for her in his suite.  She immediately responds by wrapping her arms weakly around the back of his neck and drawing him down towards her, giving him the opportunity to deepen the kiss, unconcerned about infection since he knows the virus was an implant and none transferable.  Their tongues play an intricate dance of passion as he soothes away the rigidness in his little redhead’s body so she can relax and go back to sleep.  He flinches at the lingering coppery taste in her mouth.

Jonathan pulls away, kissing the tip of her nose and burying his lips against her neck. He laves her skin with his tongue to the point where she lets out a satisfied sound of pleasure.  Her hands are fisted in the back of his shirt but he slowly untangles her arms from him before leaning up again.  Clary’s panting and her eyes are filled with need… and disdain.  He understands.

Leaning down to brush his lips over her ear, he whispers in his lilting Idrian accent, “Now go to sleep, little angel, and dream of something pleasurable for me.”  She shudders at his words and arches up as though his mere words pushed her into climax but he slides off her body, not having realized he’s pinned her down with his erection pressed between her legs.

Clary’s head turns to watch him go after he draws the blankets up over her still slightly feverish body and gives her one last chaste kiss.  He turns out the lights and closes the door with a soft click behind him before walking out into his living room to deal with the queen and the matter of extra security for his soon to be wife.


	5. Concession

Alright guys.  Just because I feel like doing something nice and it's taking so long to publish, I've decided to post the rest of the fic version of Last Hope to satisfy you all.  Since it's an old copy, and a work I'm not entirely proud of anymore, forgive any continuity, grammar, name mistakes as I hastily put together the fic version for you guys.  As a result of this, there may be some events and new content that I've added into this version as I created it while revising and adding to the book version, so think of as a treat.  A sneak peek really.  I hope this makes your day.  I'll post the rest of the fic chapters shortly.


	6. Conceding Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was lovemaking to her. But was it to the prince?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, forgive any mistakes grammar or otherwise and feel free to message me about them so I can fix it. Enjoy!

_We’ll make you feel better._   It echoes in her head and she screams, bolting upright.  She frantically searches the room but it’s too dark to tell where she is.  How did she get here?  What time is it?  Where’s the prince?  Her chest heaves and her body burns with unnatural heat as she notices that her sweatpants are missing.  She can’t remember anything past falling into the bed across the hall from the prince.

She hears hurried footsteps somewhere and a door is thrown open, the lights flipped on.  She recoils from the bright illumination as her eyes adjust from the crushing darkness from a few moments earlier.  Her throat feels raw and there’s a coppery taste in her mouth.  Blood. 

The prince steps up beside the bed, his eyes scanning over her body frantically before looking up at her face.  “Are you alright?  I heard you scream,” he says, sitting on the side of the bed.

Clary runs a hand through her hair, pushing it out of her face.  She can still hear her heart pounding in her chest.  She nods blindly.  “Yes, I’m fine.”  No you’re not.  The images of large calloused hands holding her down, gripping the back of her neck haunt her.  But she’s not going to let the prince know that.  “Just a nightmare.”  More like a memory.

The prince scans her face before finally seeming to accept this.  “How are you feeling?” he asks, startling her.  The novelty of this question is always shocking to her, only two, or maybe four, other people have asked her that and she wouldn’t have thought the question to come from someone like the prince who only cares about himself.  Though she’s seriously starting to doubt that.  She hates it.

She’s always viewed royalty as pompous and self-centered.  For this white blond haired prince to come in, buy her virginity then treat her like anything other than a sex toy or property is rattling.  She doesn’t like that this man is breaking through her opinions and defenses.

“What happened?” she responds, not comfortable with answering the prince’s question yet.

The prince appears to be dissatisfied with the question answering his question but doesn’t say anything.  “We’re not quite sure.  You had something attached to your spine that Will had to remove.  You had a fever, locked yourself in the bathroom and was apparently coughing up blood.”  He stabs his fingers through his hair nervously, a very un-prince like gesture.  “You should be fine now but I want you to go back to sleep at least for another hour.  No arguments.”

“I’m not tired,” Clary says immediately, not wanting to go back to sleep and chance being bombarded by those nightmares again.  “What time is it?” she asks, swinging her legs out of bed, her shirt falling just below her hips, exposing her rump and triangle of dark curls.  She stands on wobbly legs.

“Eleven o’clock,” he says while a frown crosses his face, standing to take a hold of her waist.  She stills, letting herself be drawn back against his body.  His large warm hands press against her stomach beneath her shirt.  Her gut is sore but his warmth feels good against her skin, seeping into her body to soothe the ache; she can’t help but melt back against him, his strength, his warmth, his care.  She stops her thoughts at the last one.  Does she really believe he cares for her?  She stays rigid in his grasp, not moving a muscle as the prince holds her captive.  Her body screams for her to twist out of his grasp and lock herself in the bathroom before she has a panic attack.  Her nightmare still fresh and bloody in her head.

“But I want you to go back to sleep,” he says quietly yet sternly and she can feel the skin on her neck twitch, where her foster father’s nails had dug in.  She fists her hands in his shirt, tensing at the tone as memories assail her.  Her foster father knocking her down, holding her face to the ground by her neck as she struggles to get away.  Rough hands tearing off her hand-me-down, thread bare skirt.  The screams and shouts of the boy who stumbled upon them before it was too late then the icy, vengeful glare of the man as they dragged him off in electrified cuffs.

“Relax, sweetheart, you’re safe here.  But I’d like for you to get some more sleep,” his voice has turned soft and peaceful.  He leans down and presses his mouth to her the skin of her neck, not making a sound as he contents himself with the feel of her skin.  She tenses, remembering that she isn’t that helpless ten year old anymore but a grown woman, except now, there is no chance of a boy stopping them by calling the police, no one to save her from sacrificing the most intimate and private aspect of herself.  Except the prince isn’t some perverted, forty year old man supposedly caring for orphaned kids, the prince is a spoiled, pampered bachelor that bought her, body and soul.

He can’t really care for her, she’s only an eleven million dollar investment.  She can’t possibly have someone care for her wellbeing when her entire life has been fend-for-herself or dictated by someone else.  She’s never had any real choices or a home to go to.  Never been able to crawl into bed with someone who will hold her and comfort her.  Never had someone to hold her when she’s been beaten down.  She’s a slave; that’s what she’s been even in her foster homes.

But the way the prince treats her…  It’s all so conflicting and stressing, pressing on her chest and mind like the anticipation she had that night.  She didn’t know when the pain would come, her face pressed into the splintering wood floor, small, weak and defenseless against a much stronger, much older, much scarier man.  Now, even though she has no choice, she has the ability to say when her virginity is taken from her, at least she can control that part of her punishment.  To know when to expect the pain instead of waiting for it like a bullet in the dark.  She wants to be able to have at least that sliver of control and her fear piling atop her anxiety with every day hour with the prince is nearly killing her, making her relive the nightmare that was her childhood, is almost enough to make her burst into tears.  Something she hasn’t done since that day at the foster house. 

She pulls away from the prince’s arms, tugging off her shirt and falling to the floor on her knees, spreading her legs wide, bracing her hands on her thighs and bowing her head.  Taking the weight off her legs is such a relief.  “You’ve waited long enough, prince,” she says shortly, if not a little bitterly.  She nearly chokes as she forces her next words out, disgusted by the slavery she’s been reduced to.  “I cannot express how ashamed I am for the delay or the lack of my health.  You may take me now and I won’t resist.  My job is to please you,” she says quietly.  She wants this over with so she can stop feeling so conflicted and so in pain, so fearful.  It doesn’t matter she feels like shit.  At least she knows that she’s a slave to him instead of having her freedom pinned to the floor like a butterfly in a display case, exposed and vulnerable.  As long as she knows her place, she’ll live with whatever comes with it.

The prince says nothing, stepping up to her so she can see his perfect, bare feet.  He holds a hand out to her and she obediently takes it, letting him pull her to her feet but keeping her head bowed.  He runs a hand over her bare hip.  “As much as I would love to take you up on that offer,” she tenses at his words, which he immediately attempts to soothe with a caress over her hip, “I need to go tell the queen we won’t be attending today’s events.  Perhaps after I return we could do something to your liking, little one.”

There it is again.  He wants to do things her way, like he cares about what happens to her.  She clenches her fists lightly by her sides.  “Why aren’t we going to today’s events?” she asks, her eyes still trained on the ground.

“Because you are sick and recovering,” he says, tracing a finger over her neck.  Her eyes flick to the bandage on her wrist.  She absently twists her wrist, frowning when she can’t feel the shift of sore muscles against impossibly cold metal.

“But I feel fine now.  Why can’t we go?”  Clary asks, turning her face into his hand.  Her hair falls over her shoulder while he continues stroking her cheek with his thumb.

“You really want to go out to the equestrian tournament after what you’ve just been through?”

“I don’t really remember what I’ve been through, so yes, I do want to go if it pleases you,” she says quietly.  She just wants to be out of the bedroom.  And if that means forcing herself to go to the equestrian tournament on wobbly legs, an aching stomach and a building killer headache, so be it.

He seems to ponder this for a moment, feeling as though he’s having an inner debate over her before he crooks a finger under her chin and tilts her face up to look at him.  She looks away but does not remove his fingers from her chin. 

“Then I suppose you should go dress.  A summer dress perhaps, something light,” he says reluctantly, leaning down to press a chaste but languid kiss on her lips.  She keeps her eyes away from his gaze, feeling odd at his reaction to her submission.  She’s not sure if he’s angry or irritated or even pleased but Clary doesn’t have the gall to meet his eyes.

“Yes, my prince,” she says, frowning to herself before turning away toward the closet, her red-black hair sweeping around her and falling to the small of her back.  She feels it brush against her shirt softly before she reaches the small section of her clothes and grabs a light peach colored dress and a pair of gilded sandals below it.  She clips on her bra and slides into her dress before pulling on the sandals.  On a last thought, she pulls on a bangle to cover her bandage.

She steps out of the closet and goes down to the bathroom to apply a light layer of makeup to compliment her dress, to cover up the startling sickly paleness of her skin.  Brushing out her hair she wonders at the possibility that the prince could actually care for her.  As more than a sex toy.  He mentioned making her his wife but many Escorts become Consorts to royalty.  He’s taken extra care to make sure she respects herself just as much as he seems to but that could just be his expectations.  Her first night though…

He didn’t take her because she was scared.  He respected her boundaries even though she’s supposed to be concealing them from him.  In her patron’s eyes, they’re not supposed to exist.  Escorts are supposed to be poster children of perfection.  They’re not supposed to have problems, they’re supposed to be skin deep, shallow Barbie dolls for royalty to play with and discard as they please.

She looks down at her clear polished nails braced on the counter and blows out a breath through her nose.  She clears her mind, brushing aside confusing thoughts and just turning it blank.  God, her body aches.  What even happened?  She rubs her bandaged wrist, moving the gold bangle out of the way, and hisses in pain but shock hits her when she feels an absence of a certain torture device.  She moves to take off the bandage, but heat floods her core as strong arms wrap around her waist.  She leans back against the prince’s solid body and wonders what it would feel like to have him pressed inside her.  The thought comes serenely and it seems to relax her, oddly enough, as she leans her head back against his shoulder.

“You alright?” he asks in that deep, wonderful voice of his that makes her insides melt.

“I’m fine,” she says wistfully, letting herself sink into the thought of being wrapped around him in bed.  Of hearing his moans and sounds of pleasure as she manipulates his body.  Of him returning that pleasure so her body explodes in orgasm.  She smiles as she lets the thought grow without any guilt lacing it.  It whisks away that crappy feeling in her mind and body.

“Let’s go then,” he says with a gentle kiss to her neck.  She’s lost in the fantasies of her own mind, thinking of what it would be like to lie with the prince as they descend the glass staircase to the elevator.  She zones out for a moment, her small hand clasped in the prince’s large, warm one, before she finally shakes her head.

What is she thinking?  The prince only wants her for sex and she should accept that, not think of how much he’d love her.  Though it’s not entirely against the rules to imagine having killer sex with the epitome of that very thing.  It’s not illegal but it should be appalling to her after she’s been trained to use her body in such a way as to please others and not herself.

She doesn’t really see where they’re going as her mind battles against itself and tries to sort out her feelings and before she knows it they’re in a pavilion outside in a garden.  She barely notices the prince’s arm around her waist, supporting her weight.  A dirt track has been set up with lots of obstacles and stands surrounding the track where the gathering nobility are taking their seats.  There’s a larger dais with three thrones and an elaborate chair set up in the center of the stands, a lush green canopy, shading the seats from the afternoon sun.

Trumpets blare as the prince steps out onto the dais, splitting her head with the noise, and has her sit in the elaborately decorated chair beside the throne to the left of the largest one.  The nobility sitting in the stands look over at her and the prince even as animals, horses, come prancing out onto the dirt track and start circling.  Off somewhere, Clary can hear a chamberlain announcing the prince and herself as they take a seat under the shaded canopy.  The king and queen’s throne to the right remain unoccupied for the time being as the prince leans over to whisper in her ear.

“We can leave anytime you want, little flower.  All you need do is tell me and we’ll be gone,” he says, concerned, his voice like fire creeping over her skin, as though her body is just now realizing it can to react to him in such a way.  She nods deftly before turning dutifully to kiss him on the cheek and present him with a winning smile as she gratefully settles her aching body onto the chair.

“Alright, your Highness,” she replies just as the king and queen step out onto the dais, hand in hand and sharing a big smile as they wave to the audience surrounding the prancing horses.  As the king sits in the largest throne to the right of the prince, the queen casts Clary a look that she can’t tell if it is feral or concerned.  Either way it makes Clary blush in shame and turn away, glancing at the horses with riders being paraded around and announced before lowering her gaze to her lap.

The prince slides his hand into hers and laces his fingers in between her own, bringing their joined hands to rest on the armrest of the prince’s throne, displaying her connection to him publicly, and by the looks of it, quite happily.  A horn sounds and the horses clear the track all except for one then a second horn blows as a holographic scoreboard and timer appear overhead as the horse bolts around the track and over obstacles at the rider’s urge.

A strange twinge fills her stomach as she thinks of how she’s been ridden her entire life to conform perfectly to the whims of others but drops the thought as affection swims through her at the prince’s warm squeeze of her hand.  She entertains the thought that he genuinely enjoys her company for the next seven riders as they prance and jump and neigh, and the feeling of sickness gradually dulls until it’s just an afterthought.  She doesn’t dare look over at the queen or king but she can feel the queen’s penetrating gaze on her from time to time like a hot brand against her cheek.

Oddly enough though, the prince distracts her from it as he continually leans over to whisper things in her ear that make her smile.  He presses a few kisses to her cheek when he leans over, never releasing her hand and eventually they pick up a conversation about how she’s never seen a horse before that then leads into a conversation about going out into the city later this week to make due on the promise he made to get her more clothes.

As the tournament comes to an end, the king stands to announce a winner and presents the prize purse.  The prince on the other hand has leaned close to her ear and under the guise of whispering something to her, has started suckling the spot just under her ear, making her stiffen in surprise for a moment before turning her face, his lips brushing over hers before whispering in his ear.

“Not yet,” she says conspiratorially, a sudden burst of hormones making her want to drag the prince back to the apartment and let him have her for the entire day with the door bolted.

The prince raises an eyebrow at her before kissing her lips softly.  “I intend to follow through with that promise,” he replies.  The winner of the tournament, some foreign noble, circles the track in victory once before exiting.  The rest of the nobility watching from the stands begin leaving as the prince stands, pulling her up with him.

He never lets her hand go as they bow to the king and queen respectfully before descending the dais and guards in immaculate black suits fall into step behind them.  The prince takes them onto a dirt path through a lush garden on the way back to the castle, not saying a word as he lets Clary take in all the beautiful flora and fauna.  He doesn’t seem to mind she’s leaned most of her weight against him, her body weak and spent from this morning.  Clary lets a smile cross her face and the prince eventually slips an arm around her waist as they walk back to the castle, occasionally passing a few other strolling nobles or pages as they go.  Her body seems to mold to the prince’s side, becoming more and more allured to the feel of it, exhausted and sore though it is.  She leans her head on his shoulder as they enter the castle through large glass double doors.

“So when are we going shopping?” Clary muses as they make it to the mirrored elevator.  She can feel a buzz build behind her naval as the doors close and shut her in close confines with sex on a stick. 

The prince’s fingers tighten on her waist, making the buzz climb to a low sizzle.  “Let’s get back to the room and see where it goes from there,” he says quietly, sounding slightly tired but his voice takes on a deep, dark quality.  She shivers and tucks a hand into the back pocket of his slacks, making him tense and draw her closer.  Usually she would be mentally complaining that his hands on her are just a show of possession but it seems natural.

She tries not to frown at herself in the mirror.  Since when did she have a change of heart toward her prince?  She can’t imagine why she would want someone so hot headed to penetrate her most secret temple.  He can’t possibly have care for something as delicate as taking her virginity, can he?  He’s a man, all men are rough and brutal.  Especially one brought up to rule a country through conniving politics and manipulation.  One who’s used to getting that which he wants and with her it will be no different. It’s her obligation to give in, no matter her opinion.

The elevator doors open and the prince guides her along the bridge, meandering really, not a care in the world as they mount the spiral staircase.  The hallway is eerily empty as they reach the prince’s chambers and there’s a hollow feeling in her stomach as the prince turns to her.  He smiles warmly down at her as they stop in front of his door.  The hollow feeling in her stomach is now filled with a raging fire at the look in his eyes and her mind is filled with confusion at this reaction to her prince.

“So how did you like the equestrian tournament?” he coos, leaning down to brush a curl away from her cheek.

She takes a step back, conflicted over her body’s physical reaction and her back presses against the cool door.  “It was entertaining,” she says in a low voice.  “I’ve never seen one before so I can’t really voice an opinion that carries any weight, your Highness.”

The prince cocks his head to the side and closes the limited space between the two of them.  Pressing his hands against the door, he cages her in.  “You’re opinion matters to me, sweet one.  Why would you think otherwise?” he asks in his sweet, melodious voice that sends a shudder through her chest.

“I’m your bought Escort, my prince.  I’m supposed to please, you not have opinions,” she says, ducking her head to tear her eyes away from the prince’s piercing black gaze.

“You’re my bought nothing, Clary.  You’re my woman and I’ll treat you as such.  Your opinions matter to me.”  He takes a step closer.  “Your needs matter to me.”  His body presses against hers, setting it alight.  “Your wellbeing matters to me.”  His hands close round her hips and his head dips down to look her in the eyes.  “You matter to me,” he whispers before his lips crash against hers.

She gasps at the force of his passion, arching her back against him as she laces her fingers in his ivory hair.  He licks her lips gently, belying his forceful kiss and fiery desire, pleading for entrance as his hands squeeze harshly at her hips.  She moans and parts her lips for her prince, letting him lick into her mouth.  He presses her body back against the door violently, holding her there even as she writhes against him in pleasure as heat floods her veins.

His hands slide down from her hips to her round buttocks, gripping her delicate, firm skin in his hard, calloused hands and lift her from the ground.  Lips still locked, she gasps into the prince’s mouth as she’s lifted slightly above him and firmly wraps her legs around his waist for support.  The prince groans deeply as her legs squeeze his waist and her gentle hands cup his face.  He blindly reaches for the door handle behind her and she helps guide his hand down to it.  The door falls open, causing her to gasp as the force with which the prince is kissing her swings her back as the door’s support leaves.

Her lips momentarily leave his mouth and he kicks the door closed, bolting it tightly before his mouth suckles against the skin of her neck.  She throws her head back as her core begins to throb in lusty need.  Moaning, Clary is blind to any inhibitions as the prince quickly walks them to his bedroom, kissing and biting the hollow of her throat.  He eagerly kicks his door closed, shutting them in darkness.

She gasps as his nose dips into the exposed cleavage and his hot tongue laves up the side of her sensitive breast.  She flexes her thighs at the sensation, making the prince groan.  He throws her down on the bed, expelling her breath in a gust, and tears off his shirt, tossing it across the room before claiming her lips again.  She moans quietly as he goes about licking into her and pressing his swollen groin to where she burns for him.

A shudder of fear runs through her at the prospect of his sex pressed inside her.  What will it feel like?  It’s going to hurt, but how much?  And for how long?  Her fears are obliterated for a moment as the prince deftly tugs the zipper of her dress down the back and his cool fingers trace her spine, arching her up into his hard body.  She’s left in her sandals, bra and panties as the prince unhooks his belt buckle and pants button and tugs them down, never leaving her lips.

The prince has to pry her arms from around his neck where they’ve been holding him to her lips, to unhook her bra and gently slide the straps down her arms.  She locks her ankles at the small of his back, delaying the inevitable as his hands come up and massage her breasts.  She throws her head back in ecstasy as it rips through her body as the prince’s experienced hands knead her breasts with fervor.  His hands slide away to cup her rear and he moves his mouth down to close around her right nipple.

Her breasts swell and ache as his teeth brush over her sensitive skin, and the ache of sickness is replaced with an entirely different ache.  Her hips lift and grind against his swollen groin in an effort to heighten her pleasure.  It sores through the roof as the prince pushes back, his boxers brushing her underwear.  He pulls back from her nipple, blowing a cool breath over the moist skin, causing her to whimper with pleasure.  She grabs his chin and pulls him back up for a splintering kiss.  He grabs the wrist holding his chin and wrenches it away, pinning it beside her head and thrusting his covered manhood against hers.  It sends a spike of fear through her to be pinned down but she calms, reminding herself that this isn’t the foster father and she isn’t a defenseless ten year-old.  Just a helpless eighteen year-old.

“Please,” Clary mutters against his hot, swollen lips.  She doesn’t know what’s overtaken her common sense but she uses her free hand to try and wrench down the prince’s boxers.  He chuckles darkly and peels off the boxers, dropping them beside his ankles.  Her hand reaches down with a new hesitancy, never having touched a man before.  At least from what she can remember.  The Night’s House probably erased it.

The prince uses his free hand to take hers gently.  He guides it down and holds her hand over himself, letting her adjust to the new sensation.  It feels like hard velvet, luscious and full.  He uses her hand to stroke himself and strangely enough, it turns her on even though it shouldn’t.  Her body being used to please the prince should disgust her, but the way he gently holds her hand and uses her fingers to please himself makes her heart swell.  The sweetness of his gesture even though he knows she already knows how to please him.

She whines quietly as the prince continues to stroke himself, continues to torture her with pleasure and not satisfy her, one hand pinned beside her head and the other used to satisfy the prince himself, but that is his right.  He owns her virginity and body, to do with what he pleases though it’s torture to her, but she must endure it.  Squirming slightly beneath his strong, hard body she pulls at his top lip with her teeth, managing to pull a groan from him with the coupled motion of cupping his cock in her hand, gently squeezing him.

He thrusts forward as her hand still cups him, making her stifle a gasp against his mouth.  He releases her hand but she continues to stroke him, so much that he groans and has to pull her hand away and pin it with her other wrist in the same hand.  She breaks the kiss to whimper and pull at his hand.  He leans forward, his mouth just brushing her ear.

“Hush, little one.  I want to come with your body wrapped around mine, not just your hand,” he whispers and an electric shock travels down her spine with his words.  Her chest heaves, pressing her swollen breasts against his chest.  This isn’t the foster home, she chants to herself.  You aren’t ten anymore.

He hooks his index and middle finger in the waistband of her panties, slowly inching them down her legs.  Before she realizes it, he’s slipped her sandals off and her panties have followed, his own boots long gone by the door.  She’s laying bare beneath the prince, nothing between them but air and it sets her body trembling with both fear and ecstasy.  But she wants this.  So badly she wants this.  He soothes her by grazing his nose up the side of her neck, blowing a warm breath across her tensed skin.

His hand releases her wrists and both take on a slow, seductive quality as they glide over her body, his calloused finger pads scratching her smooth, freckled skin. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?  You don’t have to.”

She stares at him, registering he’d just asked her.  He’d asked her.  No one’s ever asked her anything.  No one’s cared.  She reaches up and caresses the prince’s warm cheek.  Her heart melts as he turns into her palm, kissing the center.  His eyes are closed in bliss.  She finds herself saying, “Yes.  I want to do this.  I want you.”

His eyes open slowly, the look in his eyes turning her body to mush.  His gaze flickers between her eyes and his smile grows; it sets her on fire and makes—makes love swell in her chest. His hand presses down slightly at a pressure point she knows is one of the most erogenous on a woman’s body.  She languidly arches into him as pleasure floods her senses and she pushes her fingers into his silken ivory curls, letting them caress her fingers as his mouth travels down her body and nips all the spots his rough fingers have caressed and massaged.  It sends pleasurable sparks curling up her body as his mouth moves closer and closer to her core.

She bucks her hips upward in anticipation but it seems to drive him off, making him pull back and stop his caressing, to make his hands hold down her hips.  She almost cries out at the loss of pleasure and feeling on her heating body.  The prince doesn’t relent at the withdrawal of pleasure, holding her down but leaning down to brush her ear.

“Relax,” he breathes.  “I don’t want you tense when I take you.  It will hurt less if you relax.”

Clary lets out a strangled moan at his words, to which he laughs but releases her hips.  She makes herself sink back on the bed as he resumes his torturous path down to her core.  It’s painful to not arch up or squirm but she manages to stay relaxed as the prince delves down into her core with his tongue.  She gasps at the sensation of his hot, seeking tongue dipping into her and teasing the core of her pleasure.  Her fingers lace themselves in his hair again and her hips stroke upward against his tongue.

He growls against her, sending a vibration up through her body, making her moan as it spreads through her center.  His lips caress her sensitive skin and his teeth nip at her clitoris.  She sucks in a breath as she climaxes, bringing fear into her veins of what he’s going to use next to make her orgasm.  Pulling back she sees him lick his lips like a hungry predator closing in on his next kill.  Her lips part slightly and her hands move down to cover her sex, her knees coming up to close her legs as the prince leans over her with a dark smirk. 

“Are you absolutely sure you want this?” he says.  “You have absolutely no obligations to me, alright.  Forget the Night’s House, forget the rules.  Forget it all.  It’s just you and me, period.  Look at me and tell you’re sure you want this.”

His question is all she needs to say yes.  His care and consideration.  Her body shivering, she pulls him down so her lips brush his ear.  “I’m sure I want this.  Positive,” she whispers.  He shivers.

His hands slide down from her hips over her inner thighs, parting the supple skin as he goes.  She wraps her arms around his neck.  He settles between her legs and she shocks at the feel of him against her thigh.  He leans down and draws at her lips languorously, flushing her body with hormones and heat.  She moans quietly, her body loosening but she locks up as she feels his tip touching her.

One of his hands slide down her back and cup her rear, managing to soothe her body if only slightly.  Her breathing is labored from both the prince’s efforts and his advances.  The hand cupping her rear slides forward and massages her sweet spot, compelling her body to relax as pleasure pours through her.  She still trembles as the prince treats her, massaging and coaxing, soothing her but none of it wipes away all the long-ingrained fear of what’s to come.  She wants this, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t scared.

He might not be gentle, a voice whispers.  He’ll hurt you, just like everyone else in your life has.  She turns her face into the covers as fear threatens to dominate her body.  Her muscles lock for an infinitesimal fraction of a moment before her training kicks in and coerces her body into melting but apparently the prince hasn’t missed it.

He kisses gently up her neck as he slips two fingers inside her.  She knows what he’s doing as he pumps them in and out, slowly and he adds another finger.  He’s stretching her tight, virginal entrance to accommodate him.  It still won’t be enough to lessen the pain.  He sucks on her earlobe before drawing back and blowing a breath across her skin, raising goose bumps.

She moans into the sheets as his fingers continue their work and he moves his length closer to her.  She whimpers and resists pulling away, her eyes shut tightly and face turned, buried in the covers as though they can protect her from the pain to come.

“It will only hurt for a moment, little flower, then I promise I’ll have both of us screaming out in ecstasy,” he whispers.  He kisses her turned cheek.  “I’m so sorry for having to hurt you but it won’t last more than a moment and every day hence forth all you’ll feel is pleasure, I promise.”

Because after this all you’ll want from me is to fuck.  Clary thinks bitterly, knowing that once he’s inside her and the pain has subsided, her training will take over and blind him with ecstasy so that all he’ll know from her, all he’ll want from her, is pleasure.  Clary’s brow draws together against the sheets as she feels his fingers continue to pleasure her.  _No_ , she thinks, _You have to believe at least one person in your life is different_.  One person, and so far the prince has proved her wrong at every turn.  She lets herself go and soon she’s gasping out her release.

“Now you’re ready, darling,” he soothes.  “Promise me you won’t tense,” he breathes against her skin.  She nods and takes a deep breath to calm herself as she feels his tip pressing against her.  “Show me your beautiful blue eyes, little one,” he whispers and the weight of that nickname slams into her.  He must be at least five or six years older than her and here he is, deflowering her at his own will.  She still is a little girl to this man.  That’s what she was to her foster father.

She turns her head obediently, her heart racing with ecstasy and fear, and opens her eyes to meet his piercing black gaze.  Her eyes widen as he presses closer, glazed over with pleasure.  “Watch my eyes,” he commands, somehow soothing her, and presses into her.  She tenses instantly but he stops moving and gives her a hard stare before she eases down.  He uses short, steady strokes until he comes up to her virginity.  He laces his fingers with hers, bringing her knuckles to his lips and brushing a kiss over them.  His eyes never break contact with hers.

“Only for a moment,” he whispers before breaking through her virginity in one quick stroke.  She throws her head back and cries out from the pain now lacing her body.  Her grip on his hand turns white knuckled as the pain throbs through her and she clenches around him.  A tear slips from the corner of her eye as he remains still inside her, letting her adjust to the sensation and pain.

He leans down and kisses the tear away, stroking his thumb over her knuckles as he begins slow and lush strokes into her body.  She clenches tightly as the pain sores and he stops, stilling around her.  “Be calm, little one.  I’ll make the pain go away.”

Clary whimpers, another tear falling from her eye before she relaxes around him and he begins thrusting into her.  The pain spikes for a moment before it’s replaced with an unimaginable pleasure.  She lets out a disbelieving gasp as the pleasure builds behind her naval and coats her entire body, pushing farther the longer the prince moves inside her.  The prince’s hand squeezes hers in reassurance as he leans down and kisses away the second tear that had fallen before drawing her lips out of the covers from where she’d turned 

She starts meeting his thrusts, her hips bucking up against his in an effort to heighten the pleasure, her training definitely showing as the prince immediately moans at her movements.  Her skin tingles as the prince dominates her body, using strong, smooth strokes to take his own pleasure while ensuring her own.  So he’s not rough, he’s being gentle and making sure she doesn’t hurt… this time.  It’s her first time and the prince could change his pace at any moment but… No, he has to be different.  He has to.  If not, her heart will break all over again.

She moans into the prince’s mouth and pulls her lips away as she throws her head back, thrusting her hips up to meet his stroke.  Her free hand is gripping his bicep, her other one having unconsciously gone down to stroke him as he thrusts in and out of her.  His hand is braced beside her head as he leans down and kisses her neck, sucking on the skin delicately before moving down to her breasts.  The sensation of his mouth on her nipple and his shaft buried inside her are enough to through her into complete bliss.

She cries out once more, this time in ecstasy as her orgasm washes through her.  It’s much more powerful than the ones the prince provided her with before while using his hands and mouth and tongue.  This one rips through her body, completely obliterating any sense at all and the prince continues his strokes, faster now, creating a dark, steady rhythm to the background of her orgasm.  It makes her pleasure sore as he searches for his own release.  With one more steady thrust, he finds it and his warmth floods here core as he collapses on top of her in the midst of his orgasmic tremors.

She lies panting beneath his heavy body, her own beginning to relax as her breasts heave and press against the prince’s chest.  He releases her hands, wrapping both arms around her waist and holding her to him as he rolls over with her so she’s lying on top of him.  He laces his fingers together at the small of her back, her legs tangled with his and her hair cascading over his bare chest.  He’s placing soft kisses over her neck and cheeks, his fingers drawing patterns on the skin of her back.

“How was your first time?” he asks quietly, his breath blowing her hair across her cheek.  She turns her face into his chest, blushing at the thought of what they’d just done.  But why?  She’s been desensitized to sex for a long, long time.  It’s not like this is anything new.  Just the feel of a man inside her, stroking her with his body until she’s overcome with pleasure.  The prince chuckles lowly at her shyness.  “What?  My red head has only now developed a sense of modesty?  It is only us here, tell me,” he whispers in her ear and she slides her hands up his sides, bracing her hands below his shoulders.

“It was… gratifying,” she says, brushing her lips over his cheekbone.  He shivers beneath her and squeezes her waist tightly.  He pulls a blanket over the both of them, draping it over her bare rump and back.  Tiredness settles into her bones as a pleasing ache starts in her core, sparking every time she shifts her hips against him.  The ache in the rest of her body isn’t from the sex.  Maybe she really wasn’t well enough to go out.

He lets out a deep, satisfied sigh before tucking his nose into the crook of her neck.  “Just gratifying?” he coos, scratching his nails over the sensitive skin of her buttocks.  She arches up at the feeling then she settles back on to his hard body.  She lays a kiss on his left pectoral, leaving her nose pressed to his chest, too tired to move anymore.  Her entire body is weighed down with fatigue and sickness but the prince continues stroking her skin, soothing any negative thoughts she had a moment ago.

She mumbles assent, nodding her head against her prince’s chest.  She mindlessly rubs her leg over his, loving the prickly feeling of his hair scratching her shaved legs.  It feels so good to be pressed up against his naked, hot skin.  She lets her elbows give out and she threads her fingers into his ivory locks.  She breathes in his dark scent, pleasing herself at his smell.  She nuzzles against his chest, her pelvis brushing over his.  The hair at the center of his body is still warm and moist and she can’t resist reaching down between their bodies to curls her finger in the dark blond hair.

He groans and arches his hips forward before settling back down.  They both seem to be enjoying the feel of the others’ body, Clary’s novice but skilled hands caressing him and his hard biceps.  The prince’s hands sliding over her bum and back.   She lays her head down on his chest, closing her eyes and soaking up the warmth.  Her fingers still curled in the hair at the center of her prince’s body, she falls asleep to the dull soreness and steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

She comes awake to silence, echoing, deafening silence.  Her eyes open to a plain of blackness, a sick feeling in her gut and a throbbing soreness between her legs.  Her hands fist in the bed sheets; she’s no longer a virgin.  It’s gone, the innocence that was supposed to be hers to give away, not some pimp’s to sell.  Her cheeks flame in anger and she turns them into the soft pillows cushioning her body.  She holds back the tears, the infuriating, long held tears that threaten violently to spill over at the injustice of her slavery.  It’s not like she didn’t consent, not like she didn’t want it—because Angel, had she ached for it—she just didn’t consent to being sold.

She let the prince enter her, without struggle or complaint but that is what she’s trained to do.  Because she was taken prisoner!  Her breath hitches as she holds back a sob.  It’s not the prince’s fault, just the concept he represents.  It’s not fair, it’s not fair.  Why did she have to be captured and sold as a whore!  What did she do to deserve this?  Her body shudders with repressed anger before she remembers where she is and forces herself to relax, on the off chance the prince might waken and catch her violently trembling.

His arm is thrown over her waist, securing her snuggly to his chest while his leg encases both of hers, holding her lower body hostage with no chance of escape.  For a moment she can imagine herself in the arms of someone she loves, cuddled together after love making and deep in a sated slumber.  But this is the prince, her buying patron whom she’s to please with her body and mouth for the rest of her life and to whom her virginity was sold to.  It wasn’t love making, it was sex, nothing more.  She doesn’t even know if the prince loves her for more than a toy.

For it to be love making, she feels that there should be a deeper emotional tie to the reason why you want to be inside someone, to be as close as physically possible to someone while at the same time you can feel their heartbeat as your own.  You want to be able to feel that person’s love flowing through you as though you matter to them and anyone who says otherwise doesn’t matter because the one person you care about, cares enough about you to want something more than a physical connection is enough.

It was lovemaking to her.  But was it to the prince?

She sighs with hopelessness, knowing she’ll never be able to accomplish such a thing in the business she has been sold into.  For now, she’s an object, an object to be abandoned or displayed by the preening peacock that holds the key to the box that holds her soul.  A soul that hasn’t been hers for six years, one that she hasn’t seen hide nor hair of since Valentine ripped it from her and wrapped it up with a red bow, selling it for eleven point seven million dollars to a pampered prince.

She entertains the idea that the prince could be something deeper than a self-centered asshole.  Maybe his arrogance hides something deeper and darker and more painful than she can know but she has her own demons and doubts someone of this man’s standing has had many problems in his life.  Instead of thinking about the technicalities and problems this relationship presents for her and her alone, she laces her fingers in the warm, strong hand splayed across her stomach, fooling herself in the safety and warmth of his arms.

She can feel his nakedness pressed against her and despite the heart wrenching despair she feels, she doesn’t fault the prince on his physical and sexual prowess.  His hard, ridged stomach and powerful, sculpted thighs are a sight to behold.  The way his biceps flexed every time he stroked into her while braced above her body sent shivers down her spine.  His firm, hot chest pressed up against her breasts, rubbing her nipples until they were taut and pert, she shudders at the very thought.

And so, it seems, does the prince.  A violent shiver runs through him and his firm but gentle grip on her turns fierce with the convulsion.  She can feel a thin sheen of sweat begin to coat his body, making his skin slick and hot.  His heart races against her shoulder blade before he wakes up with a gasp, his breath blowing harshly against the back of her neck.  He must still think she’s asleep and she doesn’t make any move to prove him wrong as he rolls onto his back, his arm sliding off her waist until just his fingertips brush her hip.  His leg still lays across hers, just not as tightly before he withdraws from her completely.

She rolls over to see where he went but finds him sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet on the ground, elbows on his knees and the heels of his hands dug into his eyes.  Clary kneels up, crawling on her hands and knees over the soft mattress to her clearly distressed prince.  Despite her bitterness towards the prince she doesn’t want him to suffer or see him distressed.  She’s not so terrible of a person that she would turn away comfort from someone who needs it.

Sitting back on her heels she places a hand on his shoulder.  He shudders, his body tensing beneath her soft hand.  She expects him to brush her away, turn away the hand of his play toy in a vulnerable moment but instead his large hand covers hers, tracing his thumb over her knuckles.

He says something in Idrian, long and lilting in his beautiful accent, caressing her skin like silk.  She moves forward on her knees, wrapping her other arm around his chest and circling her legs around his waist so she can lean her head on his back.

“You know, if I’m going to live here I’m going to have to learn Idrian one of these days,” she says quietly, into his skin and she can feel his shaky chuckle through his ribcage.

“I’ll be sure to teach you when we get everything settled, pélara,” he whispers, draping his arms over her legs.  He’s silent now, forcing his breathing to even out.  His body is still tense despite the laugh he’d let out and Clary gives him a comforting squeeze.

“What’s wrong, my prince?” she says, nuzzling her cheek against his shoulder blade, but secretly, she uses to position to sag in exhaustion and sickness against him.  His body’s so warm and solid; she can remember the feel of his front pressed against hers just this afternoon.  She can’t imagine her prince would have anything wrong with him.  The possibility of him becoming anything but perfect and unmarred is slightly disconcerting.  She doesn’t want to show any sympathy to her buyer, her patron, but the tension riddling his body is causing her own muscles to coil in stress and her heart pulls painfully at the thought of him being hurt.

She doesn’t know where the feeling has come from but she can’t help acting on it.  She settles against his firm body to better comfort him and comfort herself.  He still doesn’t relax despite the warm caress of her body.  Her naked body.  He slowly unwraps her soft limbs from his body, reaching back with his strong arm to move her aside so he can lay back on the bed, feet still planted on the ground.  She throws an arm across his torso to brace herself over him, her legs tucked beneath her.  She looks down on the prince’s rattled gaze, feeling the anxiety exuding from his pores as her red-black hair falls in a curtain around her face.

“Will you tell me please, my prince?  I don’t like to see your distress,” she whispers tiredly, passing it off as groggy and not drained as she leans down to brush her nose over his.  She regrets going out to the tournament (even though it was most likely the… physical activity that drained her).  Strangely enough, she means her words to the prince, distress grates against her own nerves and makes her worry for the other person’s wellbeing.  Though the only other people she’s acted upon the feeling for have been Belle and Bash.

His fingers trace over her bandaged wrist delicately as he contemplates telling her what troubles him.  His eyes dance across her face, his hazel irises ringed with dark blue reflect his reluctance and indecision.  How can a prince be so torn up about telling her something?  What happened to make him so secretive?  It’s not like she’ll tell anyone, or would if she could.  She’s bound by Escort rules to keep any and all secrets of their patrons to themselves.  It makes the patrons feel safer and it relieves them of the stress of having to hide anything.

Her prince take a deep breath, still sparking shocks across her skin with his roughly callused fingertips.  “It’s just a recurring nightmare, Clary,” he says, breaking eye contact to glance down her body.  She feels exposed as his eyes skirt over her breasts and stomach.  He doesn’t look back up.  “My father, the previous king, was not the kindest of men.  He didn’t appreciate failure or take disappoint very well.”

Clary leans down, pressing her chest to his as she feathers a light kiss across his cheek.  “I’m sorry.  A father should look after his son and be proud of his child, not take out their anger on them,” Clary says, her own heart twisting as she imagines what her father would have been like but crashing in disappointment as she can’t remember anything about him.  All the foster fathers weren’t ever close to being fatherly, especially the one who was arrested.  Okay, they were all arrested at some point but the one who almost raped her.  The best one ever did was not hit her for bringing more of her things from school home, or maybe that was the one who threw the beer bottle.  They’ve all sort of blurred together, not being important enough to have a solid place in her memory but severe enough she can remember each one’s face as they would hit her and abuse her.  But the worst one?  His face is the blurriest.

“Well, I was never old enough or strong enough to stop him from landing blows but the worst part was that I had to love him.  He is the only family I’ve ever had.  My mother died giving birth so I never knew her or had any siblings.  My childhood was lonely and painful, many nights I went to bed with welts on my back with no one to care for them.  But I have you now,” he says, brushing his fingers lovingly over her cheek.

Clary’s heart sinks.  She didn’t know she was the only one he had.  It makes her feel terrible of her judgment of him, she didn’t know he was so lonely and abused.  The prince grazes his thumb over her lips, smoothing the frown from them.  Out of all things, he smiles up at her, really, genuinely smiles at her.  Not one of his playful smirks and she feels like a horrible person.  Maybe he isn’t such a bad person after all.

She turns her face into his hand, pressing her soft lips to his palm.  She feels like she needs to make up for all of her harsh judgment.  The prince seems just as damaged as her, a father who beat him and ignored him is almost worse than having no father at all.  She should know, she’s had her real father abandon her and her foster fathers abuse her.  She never would have expected a king of all people to beat his Heir, his son.

She swings her leg over his torso, straddling his hips, and kisses lethargically up his forearm to his shoulder.  Now she knows what’s happened to him she can see and feels the scars, almost completely faded but still visible on his skin.  There’s one cutting across his collarbone that she runs her tongue along before blowing a cool breath over.

“Oh, my prince, my poor prince,” she murmurs, tucking her nose into his neck, sighing and letting her achy spine release to settle her body over his.  “I’m so sorry.  No father should beat their child.  No one deserves to be rejected by their own family,” she whispers, her own feelings and memories rising up and threatening to choke her.  Her breath catches before she recovers herself, wrapping her arms around the back of the prince’s neck.

His arms come around her waist and at this point she doesn’t really care that they’re both naked, the skin on skin contact is strangely comforting.  Like they’re both baring their secrets to each other.  The thought only succeeds in making her feel worse.  The amount of secrets she’s keeping could drown a horse.  Suddenly she wants to pour her heart out to the prince but she knows how stupid that would be.  She can’t know how the prince will react.

She’s not allowed to react to his secrets or tell them because she’s bound but it doesn’t work the other way around.  If an Escort decides to divulge his or her secrets to their patron, being that the patron owns them, that includes their secrets, they can do whatever they wish with them.  Tell others, scorn the Escorts for it.  The worst that she’s heard, the worst that she thinks is, was when a female Escort had told her patron something that she’d done and he’d chained her up in their dungeon naked for a week, physically torturing her with pleasure.  The sadistic prince thought it best the Escort be punished for her transgression before she was worthy of lying with him.  And the prince can do that, her prince can do that to her.  She doesn’t know if he will, but the possibility hangs menacingly over her.

“Sweetheart,” the prince soothes, noticing her catch of breath and strained voice.  “Calm down, he’s gone now and there’s no need to become so upset.”  He doesn’t say it scornfully, his voice is steady and concerned, if not a little humorous.

“But the way he treated you wasn’t fair.  You deserve affection just as much as the next person,” she whispers, not quite sure if she’s speaking about herself or the prince.

He rolls over, laying her gently down on the bed beneath him before kissing her nose and her cheeks.  “I have you for that now,” he says before he captures her lips in a soft kiss, soft but consuming as he seems to enfold her with his body and movements, blocking everything out.  She makes a satisfied sound before cupping the back of his neck to deepen the kiss, suddenly hungry for more, so much more.  Like love and actual affection but with the prince right now, she thinks with his passion, she might just be able to pretend he actually loves her.  It won’t be hard with how he takes care of her.

A thought strikes her as the prince licks at her lips, coaxing them open.  He’d called her by her nickname.  Not even Valentine had called her that.  Only Belladonna and Bash, then Jason but she didn’t expect it from her prince, always so formal and reserved.  He’d called her Clary for the first time and the realization smacks into her with the force of a hurricane, crushing her chest and making her hormones rage as she wraps her legs around the prince’s waist.  She wants more of him and he obliges her, pressing himself between her legs where she’s already starting to burn.

He pulls back from the heated kiss, his hands having tightened around her waist desperately, as though clinging to his very soul and if he lets go he’ll be lost.  She opens her eyes to stare into desperate hazel ones, so desperate for acceptance and love.  How could she have ever thought this man was spoiled and uncaring of others?  This man is nothing but loneliness and desperation, he just hasn’t shown it to anyone other than her.

“I shouldn’t be the only one who loves you,” Clary murmurs, cautiously skimming the implications of that sentence.  Twenty four hours ago she would have known it to be completely untrue.  Even a few minutes ago but now, with him lying his childhood—a childhood that a man like the prince would deem shameful to reveal—before her and waiting for her judgment, that thought is now burning away in light of another.  The horrid thing to her is she had already passed judgment on him before she even set foot on his private jet.

That concrete opinion that she thought couldn’t be shattered is now slowly and steadily crumbling the longer she is with the prince, the longer he takes care of her and the more he proves gentle and patient with her.  He even waited until she was ready to take what he bought.  Most men, having the written proof that a woman’s virginity belongs to them would have waved it in front of the woman and ordered them to their bed at their earliest convenience but the prince waited and considered her fears and opinions.  She’s still in shock.

The prince smiles down at her with a smile so sweet and sincere that is melts away another layer of ice over her heart in one look.  “You’re the only person’s love I need or care about little Clary.”


	7. Stolen Pasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I suppose you’ll want me to be calling you your highness now, eh?” the prince asks, hot breath blowing over her skin. Clary smiles, turning in his arms to kneel over him. She runs her thumbs over his high perfect cheekbones. His dark eyes sparkle in the moonlight now, his previous agitation and anger gone, replaced by what Clary can now openly deem as love.
> 
> “I like your little nicknames for me just fine, Jonathan.”

The next day, Clary went to shower.  The prince was somewhere in the apartment, making food she thought.  She undressed slowly, sore and still feeling sick.  The prince had insisted that she stay in for the next few days and get lots of rest.  Medicine had arrived for her from Will and the prince had just given her a few pills.  She was already feeling better.  But she didn’t feel quite so well when she finally went to take off the bandage around her wrist.  She wondered what her prince had done in the hours she couldn’t remember, but she knew he’d removed her chip.  It was gone and felt absolutely amazing.  But the blood left her body when she saw the scar on her wrist.

The bandage fell from lifeless fingers onto the floor as she screamed.  Memories rose in her throat, choking her.  The surgery, the punishments.  She wasn’t allowed to have scars.  Scars were imperfections.  They had to be removed.  She fell to her knees, trembling as she stared blankly at the scar.  Valentine was going to beat her.  Ten times the scar.  Her hands trembled.  She didn’t want to sit in the Correction Room.  Not again.  She’d avoided it for years.  No scars, no scratches, no injuries.

The leather belts strapped across her body, holding her face down on a cold metal table.  Painful searing stripping along her back as the ugly scars from the cables were wiped away in a long, slow, painful process.  Tears fell from her eyes.  No, please, no more.  She screamed again, clutching her wrist.  Valentine’s shouts.  She shuddered.

The burning.  The pain.  The cold gloved hands.  No scars, no scratches, no injuries.  The sting of a riding crop against her inner thighs.  The thwap of a paddle against her rear.  The cuffs around her ankles and wrists as the Correction machine seared away at torn tissue.  No, Valentine couldn’t see this.  He would beat her.  Ten times the scar.  Ten times the scar.  Ten times the scar.

The beatings.  The limping.  How did she have a scar?  No, no, no.  The blinding lights.  Valentine would find out.  He’d find out and punish her.  He’d beat her.   Send her to the Correction Room.  She’d go back to that psychiatrist’s room with his twisted toys.  She sobbed another scream.

Her prince flung the door open, finding her crumpled on the ground in a cloud of billowing steam from the running shower.  He shut it off and picked up her trembling form.

“Clary!” he had to shout past her screaming.  He cradled her close to his body.  “What’s wrong, what’s happened?”

She shuddered, tearing away from her prince.  He can’t see it.  He’ll tell Valentine!  She raced for the door, only to find her way blocked.  Her prince had gotten there first, hand planted against the door.  “You don’t get to run away this time, little flower,” he said calmly.  “I’ve told you Night’s House rules don’t apply here.  I won’t ever punish you for something that isn’t your fault,” he said adamantly.

She backed up, trembling.  Her hand was clutched around her wrist.  Her vision was blurred by tears.  He’ll tell.  He’ll tell.  He’ll tell.  He’ll give her back because she’s imperfect.  She shook her head.  “No, I’m fine.  I’m fine.  I promise,” she said weakly.  She’d find a way to fix it herself.  Her prince didn’t look convinced.

“Don’t you lie to me,” he said, hand still braced on the door.  “Clary.  Please don’t lie to me.”  He stepped away from the door, holding out his hand.  She looked at it like a cornered wild animal look down the barrel of a gun.  “Please.”

Clary trembled as he stepped forward cautiously but she didn’t step away.  He used slow, meticulous movements as he reached out a hand towards her wrist.  He towered over her, and her legs quavered as he touched her wrist.  She still wouldn’t let go and he had to gently soothe her while he pried her fingers away.  “It’s okay, little flower.  It’s okay.  I won’t hurt you.”

He looked down between them as the last of her fingers was pried away.  Her knees went weak and she dropped like a rock but her prince’s arm came around her waist to support her.  His other hand skimmed over her bared wrist and the scar.  He frowned as they both stared at the scar.  “I don’t understand,” he said quietly, running his thumb over her wrist.  “There’s nothing wrong.  Why did you scream?”

She felt weak as relief washed through her.  “You mean, you still want me, even if I’m scarred?” she said meekly, still staring at her wrist.  His chuckle surprised her as he pressed his lips to her forehead and gathered her in his arms.

“I don’t care, darling.  If anything, it makes you more beautiful,” he said quietly.  Then he proceeded to pick her up and take a nice long shower with her to show her just how beautiful she was. 

On bedrest for the next three days, she and the prince spend their time watching movies or reading books.  She finds spare paper around the room and pencils in the prince’s desk one day while he was out for an hour or so.  As she closes the drawer, a horrid image from eight years ago shudders up her spine and into her mind.  The feel of fingers on the back of her neck, the smell of stale whiskey, the sound of tearing fabric and muffled screams.  She slams the drawer closed to banish the image.

The prince comes back about an hour later with a stack of papers with a real seal of CONFIDENTIAL upon them to find her curled up on the couch with her own stack of papers.  Rough copies of all the beautiful things she’s seen since she’s gotten here.  She hasn’t picked up a pencil in years, so they’re terrible of course, but the more paper she uses, the more she remembers how to sketch.

When the prince comes over to look at them, she quickly gathers them all, cheeks flaming.

“I—I’m sorry, my prince.  I shouldn’t have taken them without asking.  They’re nothing,” she stutters, eight years ago fluttering through her head.  The result of it.  Before the prince can respond, she dumps the paper in the recycling chute, sending it down to the recycling center levels below the castle.  She shakily places the pencil, now half the size it had been, back on the desk.  “I’m sorry.”

The prince sets his stack of confidential files atop his desk next to the used pencil and grabs her wrist, tugging her to a stop in her retreat to the bedroom.  When she turns to him, his face is soft, but she can see the reprimand.  “Do you have hobbies, flower?” he asks gently.  She shudders.

Do you have hobbies, Clary?

Pleasing my patron.

Good girl.

She tugs her wrist from the prince’s grasp before she drops a curtsy, nausea sweeping through her head.  “No, your highness, I don’t.”

The next day was quite eventless, save for when she snuck out of bed in the morning to watch the sunrise.  On the prince’s desk, beside the stack of confidential files that, curiously, had her name written all over the, were the drawings she’d made the day before.  She blushed and continued on to the balcony.  She, nor the prince, mentioned the sketches the whole day.  She couldn’t help a warm feeling growing in her stomach when she looked at the prince.  The good kind.

And she can’t help but find more things to like about him.  His smile, his sense of humor, the cute little thing he does with his fingers and hair whenever she worried him.  Mostly on purpose.  But she doesn’t allow her barriers to slip.  He doesn’t love her, she’d only been upgraded from fuck toy, to fuckable companion.

And every day that passes while she’s not ‘allowed’ to please him, because she’s sick, he says, though she offers, is another heaping pile of stress and worry and anxiety upon her shoulders.  When Saturday evening rolls around, she finds there are a lot more people bustling about the castle than normal.  At least from what she could from the walk the gardens she’d begged for.

Clary asked about it that evening while she sat in his lap, drinking hot chocolate, one of her new favorite drinks.

“They are here for the U.N. Gala tomorrow,” the prince replies, sipping his own chocolate as they watch a movie on something called the Scottish Domination of the British Isles.  Something about it tickles the back of her mind in familiarity, conjuring a face but it’s gone in a moment.

“The gala?” Clary asks in trepidation.  She’ll be paraded around like a great trophy.  Not looking forward to it.  The prince nods.

“I was hoping you would come with me to help me assuage the boredom, as I have no choice but to attend.  Political appearances and all,” the prince says, drawing a finger across her temple into her curls, freshly washed.

Her eyes widen slightly, gaze on the hands in her lap.  He’s asking?  Her eyes flick over to the prince where he sits not a foot from her on the couch.  He’s smiling to himself, seemingly lost in the curl of crimson hair falling from her brow.

No, he’s just ordering vaguely.  An Escort isn’t allowed to refuse their patron’s want.  He knows that.

“Of course, my prince,” she says, suddenly tired and worn.  Clary sags back against the couch, pinning her attention on fixing her cuticles, avoiding the thin scar on her wrist.  It still gives her nightmares, no matter the prince’s assurance.

She nearly flinches at the scowl on his face, seen out of the corner of her eye.  His hands close around her hips and drag her onto his lap.  She doesn’t look at him. 

“I’m giving you a choice,” the prince says softly, hand brushing down the back of her neck.  “You don’t have to go.”

Heat touches her neck as the prince leans forward to press his lips against her skin.  She shivers, sinking into his warmth and comfort though her mind is at odds.  Dancing all night with the prince… She closes her eyes.  The feel of his hands on her hips as he sweeps her around the dance floor while the soft tinkle of music dances in their background.  To be surrounded by the bubble of the prince’s singular attention in such a public place would be… euphoric.

She shoves the thought away, drooping against the prince’s chest to thread her fingers through his hair.

“I’ll go,” she says quietly, eyes glossy with memories, hours of aching feet and sore backs from standing and prancing and bending too long.

The prince strokes her hair in silence, only the whisper of strands answering her inner thoughts before he says, “Thank you, little flower.”  She only nods dully before standing.

“Excuse me, your highness,” she says with a shallow curtsy, eyes tracing the outline of a certain dog on the couch.  She pads off over to the balcony, shutting herself in the dying summer daylight.  The soft sounds of bird calls and her internalized screaming is the only thing to be heard.

The prince comes out much later to find Clary staring at the forests lining the city.  Her expression is blank, vacant as he sits beside her but her body is warm from hours in the fading sun.

She can feel the prince’s heat against the right side of her body but it does nothing to soothe her.  The screaming hasn’t stopped.  Forced slavery.  What kind of society legalizes the capture and sale of their own citizens, their own ruling class?

Clary has her own hefty disdain for the Royals, but that is personal.  Living six years under Valentine’s cruel, abusive, manipulative hand made her realize that Royals are people too.  Once they’ve had their lives removed.  That word, Clary can’t think of it at the moment, but it sums up the slave trade of Escorts almost perfectly.  What is it?

A light breeze kisses her cheeks as the sunlight fades, making its last riotous protest of color in a flash of red and pink and orange before being sucked up.  It leaves a grand black and blue canvas.  She waits patiently for the stars.  Maybe they’ll stop the screaming.  The pain.  The memories.

Cannibalism.  There’s the word.  Royals and Nobles purchasing their own family and members of their own class for sex slaves.  Irony at its finest, though sometimes, Clary wonders if it is a means of controlling the Royals.  The prey, the lower classes, are presented with an opportunity to strike back at their oppressors.  If one has the right resources. 

Not all Escorts are Royal.  Just a great deal of Night’s House, the multibillion dollar franchise that it is.  They offer the best quality, but she knows that there are girls and boys of the social order Clary originates from.  In New York, they were all in the lower levels, sold for maybe a few hundred thousand dollars.  That’s where she should have gone that day.

Down to the lower levels, the laxer training, the softer psychological torture but she was housed with the Escorts of Royal or Noble blood.  She should have gotten the standard twenty-four by twenty-four room with standard issue queen bed, plain brown dresser and small bathroom.

But no, she’d received the penthouse and some of the roughest training, she’d learned.  The ghost of a hand circles her neck, threatening to cut off her air.  Her hand touches her throat to ward off the feeling.

The prince’s soft words cut straight through her nightmares, slamming her back into the present.

“Have I told you those stories about the constellations yet?” he says.

Clary, gaze turned toward the sky, shakes her head.

“Lay back, I’ll tell you.”

Clary does as bid and startles as she finds herself leaning against hard, heated muscle.  The prince reclines behind her and she takes care to force her body to slip back into Escort mode.  Lose, relaxed, playful and most of all, accessible.

The first story is of a beautiful woman, called Artemis.  The prince goes on to explain that this woman was a goddess of the hunt and the moon.  She was beautiful, detached, and cold.  She bathed in a wooded pool one day, only to be stumbled upon by a foolish mortal male.  Being a virgin goddess, and a vengeful one, she turned the man into a buck, said to still roam the Idrian forests.  She preferred the isolation of the wood she reigned in.

But one day, she found a hunting companion, a male of all people and became intrigued.  He was named Orion and he was the only one who could equal her in hunting.  She adored him with all her heart.  She found she was falling in love with him, with his hunting skills, his charm and kindness and strength.  But the one trait that won Artemis over, was his humility.  He never tried to boast his skill matched that of a goddess, he never boasted to his mortal friends that he hunted with and was favored by a goddess. 

His humility was his downfall.

Artemis’s twin brother, Apollo, god of the sun, became jealous of the attention Artemis was giving Orion.  So one day, while Artemis was away, Apollo sent a large poisonous scorpion after Orion.  Orion and the scorpion fought for hours, exchanging lances and blows with sword and stinger and arrow.  But Orion knew when he couldn’t win, so he turned to run.

As he did so, the scorpion saw the opportunity to strike and fulfil his deadly mission.  The giant insect lashed out with its stinger and speared Orion’s ankle.  The hunter dropped dead within minutes and Apollo recalled the scorpion.

Artemis returned the next day, eager to go hunting with her best friend but found only a cold, lifeless body.  Her agonized scream rocked the world.  She sobbed and cradled her dead friend to her, willing him back, but Hades, god of the dead, could not return a soul. 

So, Artemis dissolved her beloved’s body into stars and laid him across the sky as a constellation, a mighty warrior with a drawn bow and blazing belt of three stars, to signify the three years she had known him.  At least that is what the prince likes to believe. 

The prince lazily points out the constellation, taking her hand to guide her finger towards Orion’s belt.  Clary smiles sleepily and winds her hand around the prince’s.  He gives it a soft squeeze before going into a conspiracy theory of how Orion’s belt perfectly mimics something called the pyramids of Giza in Egypt.

Clary closes her eyes to listen to the prince speak of how Orion is symbolic of the Egyptian god of the dead, Osiris.  He represents the rebirth of people that Egyptians believe in and that Osiris’s ‘reign’ was the Dark and Middle Ages.  Osiris’s reign was supposed to be categorized and destructive and patriarchal.  The age before him, of his wife Isis, goddess of magic, was supposed to be loving, nurturing and matriarchal.  Their young son Horus ‘reigned’ in the twentieth century, making the world childlike and birthing radical movements like fascism and communism. 

But slowly the child matured and brought stability into the world.  Of course, it descended back into the Royal Wars about five hundred years later, and thus birth their current society.  Clary is too deep into her sleep to verbally or even mentally voice her disdain for the current state of society, which is atrocious and abhorrent.  Two of her cleaner, choice words.

But, no, she only lays cradled against the prince’s body while he continues talking.  She likes listening to him talk, oddly enough.  She never really was a listener.  But as it becomes darker, the prince’s voice quiets so it is only a whisper against her warm ear. She can feel the prince’s hand splayed against her hip beneath her shirt; she finds she doesn’t mind the touch.

There is something comforting about a history lesson, something familiar that her floating mind can’t quite pinpoint.  But it flits away while she listens to his deep voice rumbling in the chamber of his chest, where she rests her cheek.  Her arm is thrown across his torso, leg much the same across his as she finally settles enough to drift completely to sleep, the prince’s murmurings soft and beautiful in her ear.

 

Clary drifts to sleep sometime later in Jonathan’s arms, her body thrown across his.  She seemed to very much to like his rant on Egyptian and Greek mythology, the history and mystery behind it all.  It was all he ever read about when he was young.  When she had just disappeared.  The vengeful gods and fantastical stories seemed to help him vent some of his anger at the world as the gods reaped destruction of their own.

Jonathan had decided to become an avenging god.  An angry one.  But in the end, with his Clary back, he is just a big sap, falling deeper and deeper in love with her every moment that passes.  He moves her dark hair aside from her cheek gently to watch her eyes flutter beneath their lids in dream.

He hopes it’s a good dream, maybe one of him.

Gently, he manages to disentangle her limbs from him to stand, then hoists her up in his arms.  Limpid, her legs dangle over his arm, but her arms drowsily wind around his neck, her nose buried in his chest.  He smiles to himself and carries her inside.

Jonathan quietly shuts the balcony doors with his foot and reminds himself to lock it once he puts Clary to bed.  It is utterly silent in their apartments, save for the click of claws on the tile floor as Silver plods over to him.  Silver sniffs around Jonathan’s ankles as he walks through the living room until the hound starts licking at Clary’s dangling toes.

Jonathan watches his little flower’s toes curl and a soft giggle bounces out of her mouth.  She begins to squirm and Jonathan hisses a command to back off at Silver who yips in defiance before lopping back over to Sterling, who lounges on the couch.  Clary settles against him comfortably.

Jonathan opens the door to his bedroom and switches on the lights, dimming them before they can wake the woman in his arms.  Her hand unfurls against the back of his neck, fingers sinking into his hair.  She stretches slightly in his arms before he manages to maneuver her under the covers.

Her wild, strawberry scented hair spills around her on the pillow, a burst of color on the dark sheets.  He fondly brushes a hand over her cheek, catching some of her locks against his fingers.  She sighs deeply before her hand slips out from the covers to slip around his wrist.

“Don’t go,” she murmurs, rubbing her thumb over his skin.  She got a shiver out of him from the softness of her touch.

“I’ll be right back,” he replies, leaning down to lovingly drop a kiss on her forehead.  She kisses his cheek in return, though something is missing from it.  Clary releases him and rolls over quietly.

The corners of his lips tug down as he returns to the balcony to lock the door.  He pauses, staring at the sky a moment, wondering what else Clary doesn’t know, what knowledge was kept from her.  He’ll be her teacher now, her defender and protector, her family, the one person she can turn to.

He just needs to coax her out of the shell of obedience, hatred and defiance.  Paradoxical as that sounds.  With one last look up at the blinking stars, eyes resting on his favorite and one of the most recent stars in the sky, he closes the door and flicks the lock.  He orders the hounds off the couch and to their plush beds by his desk before locking the entry door and proceeding to the bathroom to shower.

He’d gone down to the barracks today to run a few drills with the guards, just to keep up his fitness before hastily returning to his flower, whom he’d found lounging in the sun on the balcony, reading an old, leather-bound book, it’s title barely legible.  She hadn’t noticed him standing over her, behind her, reading the language most Royals considered vernacular.  English—not Scotland’s English, spoken in so few territories that it barely constituted as a tribal tongue—but the Unified Nation’s English.  Though, the words were arranged oddly and in such a way that it had given Jonathan a headache just trying to read the seventeenth language he had learned.

He’d gone to change and by the time he returned, his flower was gone from sun bathing, the book hidden somewhere within Clary’s vast resourcefulness and she sat on the couch, draped in loose shorts and tank top, fingers curled in Sterling’s fur.

He gets out of the shower, toweling off in the quiet steam of the bathroom before wrapping the fabric about his hips and returning to his bedroom to dress in his closet.  Now in a pair of boxers, he slides between the already warmed sheets to find Clary’s curled form.  She’s warm and soft and beautiful.  She’s home. 

And he wraps her up in his body, protecting her within the shelter of his arms from everything that would harm her.  Memories, people, thoughts, rules.  Everything.  He sighs as she melts against him, into him, pressing her nose into the crook of his neck.

He’s surprised as he feels her place a warm, disarming kiss in the hollow of his throat, as she whispers, “Goodnight, my prince.”

It only makes him hold her closer, terrified of losing her again.  “Goodnight, my love,” he whispers, but there is nothing but midnight to hear him.

 

 

Clary does not enjoy her morning, at all.

She never liked dresses in the first place, mostly because of the emphasized ‘easier access’ motto that always went along with the mention of anything resembling a dress at Night’s House.  She preferred for all her parts to be covered and as impossible to access as possible.  This made winter her favorite season.  Lots of layers.  But no, it was summer and she was shoved into an elegant single-shoulder strap dress, an emerald sash sewn into the fabric.  It made up the shoulder strap that covered most of her shoulder but exposed a large portion of her chest, neck and back.  Not to mention the cleavage.

But the sash dipped from her shoulder to the opposite hip and made a splash of color against the dark canvas of the dress to compliment her fiery hair.  Which took two hours to tame after three days of sick leave and minimal upkeep.

By noon, with the gala beginning at two, she is miserable and feeling like a plucked and prodded chicken, served up for dinner.  Ah, such a familiar feeling, she thinks bitterly as a servant hustles her back to the apartment where she can officially be installed as the prince’s accessory.

Why does she have to attend this gala again?  With most of the world’s Royals and prominent leaders?  Oh yes, she is a new toy to be boasted about.  She wouldn’t doubt seeing some of her former house mates in the crowd.  The thought makes her perk up, maybe she’ll see Alec and Izzy.

A little happier than before, she lets herself be inserted back into the apartment where she is to wait for the prince.  Knowing from experience, if the right people get ahold of a man to prep them for anything from a night on the town to a U.N. Gala, it can take just as long or longer to get ready than even a woman.

Stranded, blessedly alone, in the apartments she digs out her copy of Tale of Two Cities she’d been reading yesterday and resumes her page, carefully draping herself on the couch so she does not ruin the stylist’s lengthy and frankly overdone winged eyeliner and blue-black eyeshadow, other assorted makeup piled upon her face, the precise unwrinkled dress or the spiked heels she’d been forced into.

That leaves her more leaning across the width of the couch rather than sitting in it with one elbow propped on the back of the couch and the other limply supporting her book.  An hour passes and Clary makes significant progress in her well-read book before the prince finally returns.

To say the prince cleans up nicely would be an understatement.  She lets her eyes peruse the surely tailored tuxedo jacket that hugs his torso and hips just the right way to accentuate his cripplingly gorgeous perfect figure.  His slacks are cut just loose enough to allow ample movement but continue the sleek line of his built body all the way down to his shiny shoe clad feet.  His emerald tie hangs starkly against his white dress shirt.

But atop his head, his silver blond hair remains untouched but perfect, looking its usual ruggedly bedhead style.  But he is clean shaven.  His dark eyes spark at her when she stands to greet him.  She clicks over on her annoying heels and smiles, pretending her body isn’t still tingling from her plucking and primping.  And maybe in other ways too.

She reaches up to straighten his already straight tie, laying her hand on his chest.  The heels give her some height but he still towers over her.

“Did they give you the full pluck and prime treatment in the day spa too?” she asks lightly.

His chuckle warms her insides.  “Yeah, they even plucked the imaginary hairs between my eyebrows.  I feel so violated,” he jokes and she pauses for a moment, mentally of course, the other part of her brain continuing to play with the prince’s tie.  Did he just make a joke?  To her?  Why?  She’s just his sex toy; the only jokes patrons make to their Escorts are crude ones meant to signal them to bed.  Quickly, she shakes the odd sensation and smiles up at the prince.

“Welcome to the world of beauty, my prince,” she says, popping up to her tip toes and kissing his smiling lips.  The prince doesn’t allow her to pull away though as his hands slide around her waist and drag her closer.  She obliges him as he deepens the kiss.  She startles as his hands cup her bottom and shove her against him.  Her toes nearly dangled off the floor.

When he releases her, she’s breathless and there’s just the slightest touch of pale lipstick on the corner of his lips.  She giggles and thumbs it away.  “What was that for?” she questions, taking his hand to lead him out to the hall.  He drops her hand and wraps his arm around her waist, tucking her against his side.  She resists the urge to slap him for the overtly male move.

“Can I not show my little flower the love she deserves,” he says quietly, now taking the lead as they reach the bridge above the throne room.  He stops them in the middle to look over the edge at the already milling people below.  While the prince looks at the servants and staff bustling about below, Clary watches the prince, trying to decipher what game he’s playing.

He got what he purchased and Clary is still terrified he’s angry she’s been unable to accommodate him these past few days, albeit on his insistence.  So why is he still acting civil?  Why does he hide behind a mask of false nicety?  She knows there is more to him, more secrets he hasn’t told her.  And though it is on his authority that she lives by, she finds it a little odd how open he is one moment and vague the next.

She’s met Royals before, on advertisement campaigns in a few different countries on Valentine’s orders, and they’ve all proved to be lusty, pampered pricks just looking for a place to stick it.  Pardon her crudity but that is her real world.  She learned long ago how to live with it.  But none of them come close to the prince’s behavior.

Though he does have some classic, blazingly Royal traits, he hasn’t ever signaled her to bed, he hasn’t ordered her about as a master would a slave.  He rarely says anything that could possibly be mistaken an objectification of her.  He always tiptoes around her needs, her wants.  And certainly, no Royal she’s ever met would have treated her with such grace and dignity when they’d discovered she didn’t know what stars were, let alone lay on the balcony with her and tell her stories.

The afternoon sunlight slants across the bridge of the prince’s straight nose as he points out a few different servants to her, telling her what each person is doing to prepare for the gala.  His dark eyes glint with mirth and lightness Clary has never felt in her life.  She would even dare to call it joy.  He looks handsome in his tuxedo, though none of the Royal propriety is present in the man that leans over the railing and speaks to her with an easy, lilting accent.

Of course, with her body on auto piolet, the prince doesn’t notice how deep in thought she is.  He only sees her convincing fake smile and hears her frivolous words, voicing her fabricated interest in the preparations for a gala that she doesn’t want to attend.

All his care, all his tactics and niceties and stories only make her more suspicious of him.  She hates herself for even letting herself deign to think the prince really cares for her.  It’s not true and never can be.  At least not for her.  Not with the allotment of luck fate dealt her that ran out long, long ago in an icy dorm room.

What was she thinking?  She’s fooling herself into believing her own fantasy.  She can dream and imagine and wish, but she knows none of it is ever coming true.  She contents herself in her fantasies, one of the only things that help keep her sane in her life, and then continues to survive.  That is all.  That is what her life has been and forever will be.

My life is hell.

Her finger absently rubs the back of her neck, just below her hairline where her hidden scar remains.  The irony does not escape her that she takes comfort in something given in torture.  But it is from before Night’s House, when she had some semblance of freedom and rights.  Where she could make at least some of her decisions herself.  Now she is ordained by a set of shackling laws and crippling mental and emotional damage that Valentine put there to keep her in line.

She doesn’t notice the prince is looking at her now, where her gaze has turned to the servants below.

“Where did you go?” he asks, reaching up to replace her hand with his on the back of her neck.

“I’m right here,” she replies, quickly grabbing his hand before his fingers can find the scar at her hairline.  She laces their fingers together.  Don’t trust him.  He’s lying.  He’s using you.

She knows.  She knows.  She’s all too well versed in lying and manipulation.  Just give him what he wants, when he wants and find your quiet time in between.  Get used to it.

She smiles and runs her other hand up his arm, over his shoulder and cups his warm cheek.  Such a smooth, perfect cheek.  He’s so perfect on the outside.  At least she doesn’t have to serve some gluttonous, disgusting slob that would rip her apart.

He leans into the touch.

“You weren’t,” he says quietly, “just a moment ago.  What were you thinking about?”

“You,” she says.  It’s not a lie.

Something flickers in the prince’s eyes for a moment, dragging the content expression on his face down for only half a moment before he smiles again.  “Good.”

He turns his face into her palm, kissing the center before he begins to lead her over the bridge once again.  “We should probably get downstairs to the ballroom before the guests arrive.  One of my least favorite traditions: formally greeting every single guest who’s come to the gala.”

Oh, joy.  That means Clary has to stand there as well: an expensive display of power, wealth, position and sex.  She so enjoys being an object.

Clary lets the prince tug her into the elevator leading to the rest of the castle, not just the private quarters.  It’s a maze of halls and corners and turns before they finally arrive in a sprawling ballroom, three story ceilings with Gothic beams, gilded and white and blue, dotted with bursts of rainbow light from the massive windows surrounding half the ballroom, automated drapes pulled back.  The dais in the center of the farthest wall contains two thrones.  None for the prince, apparently.

The other half of the ballroom merges into solid walls filled with alcoves installed with rounded couches, some with tables to accommodate the food lining the back of the hall.  In case the Royals dance too much and exhaust themselves.  Clary resists the urge to roll her eyes or curl her lip.

But the dance floor is white and tan marble, gold leaf scrawl lining the rectangular floor in Idrian.  She wishes she could read Idrian.

Frankly, the entire grand display, though the amount of money that could have been better used disgusts her, is beautiful.  In a lavish, over resourced sort of way.  The next hour is murder on her feet as she stands beside the prince beside the king beside the queen as they greet all the Nobility and Royalty that have made their way to Idris for this gala of ‘peace.’  Clary could almost laugh at the concept.

But she is silent beside the prince the entire time, shocked only once when he begins introducing her as his fiancée.  It is not her place to object.  He can do whatever he wishes with her.  So she gives lavish, stunning smiles that hold no real warmth and curtsies as the Royal or Noble kisses her hand.  After a while, she feels the urge to go scrub her hand in bleach.

Finally, once all the guests have been formally greeted, the orchestra files in and takes their place in the corner beside the dais.  They begin to play upbeat, bouncy, frivolous music that the surrounding blue bloods happily dance to.  Clary, her mood dark and serious, defying her bright smile, just watches them with veiled hatred.  It grows and grows like a black disease, spreading through her gut.

They’re responsible for the Night’s House organization.  They’re the ones who called for bed slaves four hundred years ago.  The cannibalization of their own people.  Shallow, conceited, selfish, self-indulgent and despicable are some words Clary uses to describe them.  She can pick out her fellow Escorts, male and female alike, dressed in barely covering outfits or lavish suits and dresses, ten pounds of smoky makeup and clung to like coveted possessions.

She’s grateful the prince doesn’t make her wear a dog collar as one princess from Peru has made her male Escort do so.  The tall, light haired male is slightly familiar.  She tilts her head as the prince leads her through the crowd; she doesn’t pay attention to where he’s taking her as she tries to place the Escort.  Oh.  The realization hits her hard.  He is one of the Doms at the New York Night’s House.  She remembers him from four years ago.

He was one of her bedmates.  So Valentine finally sold him.  Doms only get sold once they’ve put in enough training hours with novel Escorts.  His broad, intimidating form looms over the Peruvian princess but just like that night four years ago, he is gentle faced and silent, letting his patron lead him around by a thin silver chain attached to his collared throat.

She touches her own throat in brief sympathy, watching as the princess hangs off her toy, dancing him around the floor, before he disappears in a sea of faces. 

Her cheeks burn feverishly behind her makeup. 

The Portuguese are here, their dark hair stark in a pool of blonds, but they are only some younger siblings of the prince and princess who’d bought Izzy and Alec.  So much for the one happy point to this gala.

Her heart falls and she leans into the prince, who has tugged her into a sweeping dance to fit the new, lazy music the orchestra is playing.  Though the prince is talking to her about something, her mind automatically replying to him with typical Escort-esque mannerisms, her eyes study the crowd.  She makes it a game to pick out other Escorts, reading their body language, their carefully cultivated features much like hers.

Clary picks out the Scottish Royalty, one regal woman of fire kissed hair, with a female Escort attached to her hip.  Something tugs at her memory. 

_“Where’s Scotland?... Why’d you leave?”_

_“The ruling Royals sucked arse.”_

_“Why?”_

_“They imposed strict rules that shouldna been there in the first place.”_

_“Like what?”_

_“Well, they reintroduced Escorts to the country.  I doona like that sorta thing.  I might be a drug dealer, but I don’t buy prostitutes.”_

Prostitutes indeed.  She certainly feels like it as she looks at the dark haired, dark skinned female Escort beside the Scottish princess.  Behind the Escort’s mask is something akin to horror and pleasure.  When Clary sees the Escort shudder, she knows the princess has her Escort wearing some sort of toy to torture her.  Some people are just sick.  The Scottish Royalty—the princess and twin princes—are the only ones with red in their hair aside from her and the Idrian queen in the entire ballroom.

Heart sinking, she turns her face into the prince’s chest, hiding from the harsh reality crushing in around her.  She curls her fingers in the hair at the prince’s nape, grateful that he hasn’t instituted any instruments of torture or collars or kinky shit upon her… yet.  Her ears pick up a quiet moan from somewhere beneath the layers music and she lifts her head, finding a German Noble pulling a blonde Escort into one of the alcoves.  The Noble presses a button on a wall panel and the curtains drape close, a softly lit sign on the wall beside it flashing to OCCUPIED.  She curls her lip slightly in the direction of the alcove and the avaricious Noble.

“Tell me about New York,” the prince says suddenly, drawing her attention away from the disgusting displays of subjugation.  She furrows her eyebrows at him. 

“New York, my prince?  What do you wish to know?” she replies softly. 

“I want to know every good memory you have from there.  Nothing negative.  Tell me what you found beautiful there,” he says.

What an odd question, but she is not allowed to disobey.  She lets him twirl her about, the hidden width of her folded skirt flying out in a silken black pool.  The Royals around them pause a moment, breath caught in their throats at the burst of stunning beauty before it fades with the descending skirt.

“There was nothing,” she says grimly, not meeting his eyes.  He hasn’t told her she can this afternoon.  She let him dip her, her neck arching to bare her pale throat.  She feels warm breath on her skin.

“There must have been something,” the prince prompts.  “One thing.  Tell me one thing.”

Clary closes her eyes, feeling the music echo in her ears.  Music.  She tries conjuring up something.  Anything to satisfy the prince.

“The summer rain,” she says, opening her blue eyes again.  She remembers the smell, the electricity charging the air.

“Why?”

“It was the only time when the city smelt of something that was pollution.  I didn’t know what it meant then, but it smelt clean.  Idris always smells green, clean, beautiful.  There’s no pollution clouding your lungs when you walk outside here.  There’s no hum of purifiers inside the buildings cleaning the air.  I always sat at the window and traced the droplets that raced down the glass.”  She’s gone away in her own mind, back in penthouse room in Night’s House.  “I liked listening to the sounds it made on the roof.  My… friend, she liked to sit with me and we would fog up the class when the temperature would fluctuate.  We’d draw pictures on the glass…”  She sighs, her voice falling.  “But Valentine came in once.  We’d lost track of time and missed class.   He punished us.”

She clears her throat, eyes flitting to an elegantly dressed Escort draped in red silk.  Her blond hair is the color of sunlight and it hurts her eyes.  She’s attached to a Roman prince.  Poor girl.

“I’m sorry, your highness,” she says, looking down at her thoughtlessly moving feet, stepping in time with the music.  “I got carried away.”

“No,” the prince replies.  “You didn’t.  Was there anything else?”  He brushes a loose hanging curl from her face.  “Clary?”

She is lost in the screams of Izzy and herself.  Tied to a bed, asses up and bared for spankings.  Not the kinky kind.  The oppressive heat of the comforter against her face.  Not enough breath.  Sweat and pain radiating through her body.  She feels Izzy’s sweaty hand in hers.

“Clary?” the prince gently prompts again.  Clary blinks.

“Hmm?”  Her eyes flick to a male Escort, a handsome brown-haired man.  She recognizes his smile.  It’s the smile of someone who is dead inside.  He looks quite a few years older than her.  He’s been at it longer than her.  But she’s been dead inside longer than him.

“Was there anything else you liked?”

“The fish tanks,” Clary replies blandly.

“The fish tanks?  Why those?”

“It was the only life in the Night’s House that wasn’t the other Escorts,” she says lightly, smiling to detract from the mood.

“Hmm,” the prince hums, hands tightening slightly on her hip and hand.  “I’m sorry you only had Escorts and fish for company,” he says and Clary can hear the contempt in his voice when he says ‘Escorts’.  She lowers her head.  She is right.  Her intuition is always right.

I’m an Escort, she thinks in a small child’s voice inside her head.  She only hears it when shame comes out.  And shame hasn’t touched her in years.  It was beaten out of her.  But the prince and his awful contempt seem to wheedle their way into her chest and make her feel dreadful.  It almost makes her want to cry—collapse in a shivering pile on the ground and grieve for her freedom and decency.

But she keeps her smile on and lets the prince dance away the next few hours.  She doesn’t say anything more about New York, just tells the prince there’s nothing to remember and lapses into her auto piolet.  Talking Escort niceties and luring his attention away from anything personal about her.

Which, subsequently, lands her pinned against the wall of an alcove, the curtain automatically sliding shut and the sign outside switching to occupied.  The prince’s lips are hot against her neck, nipping and pulling and bruising, his hands hot and insistent as they slip beneath the slit in her dress. 

They find her thin undergarments and parade around between her legs like he owns her.  He does.  Her hands are tangled in his hair, holding his mouth to her skin as it travels lower and lower over her exposed chest.  Tingles shoot through her arms and fingers, down her chest and torso until she’s buzzing where his hands work fervently.  Clary leans her head back against the smooth wall, suppressing a moan, afraid the other guests will be able to hear her.

All the other Escorts that have been dragged to alcoves don’t bother to hide their moans unless ordered otherwise, but Clary doesn’t want to blatantly advertise that she’s the prince’s plaything.  His fingers touch soft skin, heightening the buzz until her mind is a fuzzy mess of sensation and pleasure.

The prince has pulled aside the fabric of her dress and her strapless bra.  He makes sure that the mark he leaves is covered by her dress.  The act makes her frown, even as her legs begin to shake.  Why didn’t he just mark her for the world to see?  He’s already left a love bite on her throat; why not an even more blaringly obvious one on her chest?

Clary gasps as her legs give out, forcing her to use the wall to slide down onto the cushioned bench.  The prince follows her down, one knee on the bench as his hands force more shivers through her body.  He moves his mouth over hers, dominating her senses.  His spicy clean scent fills her nose and clogs her head as he parts her lips with his.

She shudders as he leans her back, mouth doing mind numbing things to her, his hands not helping her cognizance in the least.  Her eyes flutter shut, blocking out everything except feeling.  She could drown herself in feeling.  She wants to drown.  She wouldn’t have to deal with her life anymore.

The prince makes her body surge, firework lights bursting inside her.  She lets him muffle her gasp with his lips.  Her entire body shakes as the prince withdraws, looking quite satisfied with himself and his work.

“I’m sorry, little flower,” he says and his words force her eyes open in disbelief.  “I had planned on not embarrassing you.”  He looks only slightly repentant.

“Embarrass me?” she says slowly once she’s regained enough breath.  The prince only nods.  When will he stop playing his game of back and forth?  She thinks miserably.  He can’t be both. 

The prince settles himself beside her on the couch, sweeping away hair that had fallen out of her pins.  “I did not want to sink to the other Royals’ level and do something in public, but you, you sneaky girl, goaded me on purpose,” he says with a light smile.

She had goaded him.  She’d done it to get him to stop asking questions about a painful, unpleasant and altogether horrific past.

So Clary gave him a mischievous smile and a soft kiss on his lips.  “Thank you for trying to reserve my dignity,” she says.  If I had any left.

He smiles beneath her lips.  “I can do nothing else,” he replies and kisses her a bit harder before pulling away.  She’s mostly recovered from his ministrations at this point.  Mostly confident she can get her legs to work properly.

Clary watches him out of the corner of her eye as they sit in companionable silence.  He’s going to send her to an early grave with his chivalry and crudity, all mixed together in a churning pot of prince so she can’t tell if he’s black or white.  There’s never been a gray for her. 

The prince doesn’t urge her to return to the gala, so she takes the opportunity to rest her tortured feet.  Standing and dancing for hours on end in heels does things to the ankles, not to mention the handicap of her on going recovery from an apparently deadly bio-virus.

Her patron strokes her hair, her bare shoulder, almost meditatively as the alcove only gets darker and darker with the setting sun outside.  Soon all light has ceased to seep through the cracks in the curtains and automated lighting switches on overhead, softly illuminating the prince’s handsome features.  She loves his smile.

“Do you suppose we should return to the party?” he asks quietly, looking as though he would really prefer to just sit here with her for the rest of the night.

“Will the king and queen be mad if we don’t?” she replies, turning her cheek onto the headrest.

“Probably.”

“Then yes, we should probably return to the party.”  Clary can hear the orchestra, now playing a slow, magical, almost quiescent symphony.  It is odd and beautiful to listen to it.

The prince sighs and rises reluctantly from his place beside her.  He holds out a hand and helps her to her feet.  She’s relieved to find any trace of an aftershock gone.  Clary inhales deeply as the prince hooks her arm through his.

“Only a few more hours and we can leave,” the prince says, staring at the curtains, as though wishing they’d never open.

“A few more hours,” Clary echoes wistfully.  “Let’s get it over with.”

By the end of the gala, at least the part the prince is required to attend, it is around three in the morning and Clary is sagging with exhaustion against an equally exhausted prince.

By some miracle, they make it to the elevator, where Clary proceeds to strip off her heels.  Her feet gratefully thank her for the mercy of removing the torture devices.  She, and the prince, manage to limp across the bridge over the now deserted throne room and to his quarters.  He unlocks the door with a key she hadn’t noticed him using before.

But she supposes even Royalty like their privacy.  They stumble into his suites bleary-eyed, find the dogs asleep in their beds, and manage to make it to his bedroom door.

“You can shower if you want,” he says quietly, leaning against the door.  “But I’m going to bed.”

Clary blinks very slowly.  “I’ll just come to bed,” she murmurs as a reply.  He smiles sleepily and opens the door.  He’s already stripped himself of his shoes, slacks and jacket before he’s even reached the bed.  She lingers in the doorway, watching him struggle with his tie, looking like a frustrated child when he can’t seem to get it undone.  Clary smiles and pads over to him.

Gently removing his hands from his tie, she slowly undoes the knot he’s worked into it, unraveling the smooth material until it hangs loose around his neck.  He’s leaned forward in this time, pressing his forehead to hers as he’d watched her fingers work the knot out.  Tiredly, he presses one of the softest kisses he’s ever given her to her mouth before smiling.  His lips taste like champagne and strawberries.

“Thank you, flower,” he whispers before stepping back out of reach to unbutton his shirt.  The absence of his warmth hits her shockingly hard.  How had she not noticed almost every inch of his warm body had been flush against her?

His shirt’s gone now, somewhere on the floor in the dark.  He leans over to his nightstand and pulls out a loose shirt but he doesn’t put it on.  Only tosses it on the bed behind her.  He follows the shirt’s path until he’s sitting on his bed directly behind her.  She makes to turn.

“No,” he says quietly, hands settling on her hips to stop her.  “Stay like that.”  Tired, she does as she’s told but her toes curl when his fingers skim over her bare shoulder, trailing down to the hidden zipper on her dress.  The zipper is only a few inches long, meant to tighten the fabric around her bust after donning the dress and it takes only a moment for the prince to open it.

She closes her eyes, leaning her head back and his rough fingers carelessly flick the strap from her shoulder, sending the rest of the dress tumbling to the ground.  A hot kiss is placed on the small of her back, the prince’s hands once again on her hips.  His fingers twirl around the waistband of her underwear.

A sigh escapes her lips as he indulgently traces the lines of her waist and hips, up her sides and across her back.  His touch is impossibly soft, almost reverent.  The clasp on her bra is released and there is nothing to hold it up.  The constraining piece of fabric releases her lungs so she can breathe properly again as it falls to the floor.  Another kiss is laid right where the clasp had sat between her shoulder blades.

“You’re so beautiful,” the prince murmurs against her skin.  She’s too exhausted to reply, a headache beginning to set it, a compliment to the ache in her bones.

Clary jumps as the prince tugs the shirt carefully over her head, covering her in soft fabric.  Startled, she looks down at her silhouette, enveloped in the prince’s loose shirt.  Well, she wasn’t expecting that.  The prince tugs her down onto the bed, scooting back into the pillows with her between his legs, back propped against his front.

She tries to turn but the prince only scolds her, fingers moving through her hair.  “Go to sleep,” he orders, fingers finding the many hidden pins holding up her elaborate hair style.  He begins to remove them, gently, one by one.

“Alright,” she replies on a sigh, laying her cheek against his shoulder.  “But you have to sleep too.”  Clary is already half way to dreamland.

“In a minute,” he says distractedly.  More pins disappear and the pinching of her scalp ceases.  She settles comfortably against him as the last of her pins is removed.  And as she falls asleep, she can’t help but smile to herself as her prince lightly kisses the tip of her nose and whispers, “Goodnight, Clary.”

Weeks pass without incident after that and Clary becomes more and more accustomed to the prince and his country.  He never raises a hand against her, though she gives him no reason to.  Her total submission, which she displays most of the time, seems to be the only thing that annoys the prince; that and her omission of her needs or wants.  She typically makes sure to give the prince what he wants, never drawing attention to herself the first few days, just as she was taught, but as the prince lies in bed with her afterward or just half-conscious the morning, he tells her things about his childhood, good things and bad.  He tells her of all the foolish things he’s done and gets her to laugh.  He seems to cherish her laughter as though it’s what’s keeping him alive.

The more he makes her laugh, the more open she becomes and one day she found herself telling him about her own childhood.  They were sitting on the balcony, playing chess on a small digital board with hovering, electronic pieces that moved when she touched them.  She can’t quite recall how he’d broached the subject but she found herself telling him about her first foster father.  Of how she’d walked into the wrong room at the wrong time.  Of the broken whiskey glass he’d dropped in his dash for her.  Of being thrown to the ground like a piece of trash and how her clothes were ripped from her body.

She’d stopped there, finally realizing what she was telling him.  She’d looked up to find the prince’s face contorted in anger and sympathy, his hand hovering over a chess piece as though about to move it.  She’d blanched and stood abruptly, hurrying to lock herself in her room for the rest of the day, wondering why she’d told him, the prince, her patron of all people, what she’d never told anyone else.  Not even Izzy.  That night, when she’d finally ventured out around midnight to get some food, she’d found the prince waiting for her in the living room, Sterling and Silver curled up on one end of the couch, her prince standing at the other end in nothing but a pair of sweatpants.

She’d glanced at the coffee table to see what she now knows to be popcorn and a tub of ice cream with two spoons stuck in it.  The prince beckoned her over, across the room, dark except for the dim glow from the television.  She’d obeyed, letting the prince draw her down beside him on the couch, tugging a blanket around the both of them.  He’d said not a word, just held her comfortingly, watching a humorous movie and sharing the ice cream and popcorn with her.  Oddly enough, she’d felt much better by the time she’d fallen asleep against her prince.

He didn’t mention what little she told him about her childhood but the next day he taken her shopping, finally filling the empty side of his closet with women’s dresses, jeans, shorts, t-shirts, blouses, shoes and an exotic assortment of lingerie that the prince himself picked out for her.  He’d gotten her laughing and joking with him only ten minutes into the trip and by the end she’d told him more about her childhood, the other foster homes, living on the street, though there were some spots that were strangely fuzzy.  And he listened quietly, respectfully as Clary went through racks of clothes and picked out ratty old jeans that made her feel not like such a tool or worn cotton t-shirts that provided some shred of decency.  The prince never once complained about her clothing choice, just handed the cashier his credit card to swipe and kept her talking.

At night, not every night though, the prince might get this look in his eye.  Not lust or hunger but something deeper as he looked at her coming in from the shower or the closet as he sat on the bed or stood in the doorway.  And her eyebrows would pull together as she walked up to him.  As she’d get closer his look would get more and more desperate, tortured almost before either she wrapped her arms around his neck or he cracked and caught her about the waist. 

From there, who knows, their lips would lock in a fiery kiss, something other than ecstasy would spark in her stomach as he tugged her over to the bed and fell back with her or pinned her down.  They’d moan and she’d whimper as he teased.  He’d groan with pleasure as Clary played keep away or she’d meet him with her hips.  They’d always end wrapped up in each other, sweaty and sated before he’d kiss her behind her ear or on her cheek and whisper goodnight before they both fell asleep.

He’d sparked something in her, with his quietude and midnight movies and whispers.  She felt like she was discovering herself, the self that had been too oppressed or terrified to come out.  She smiled so much more, she laughed in earnest, she felt… free.

And as she sits on the balcony once more with her prince—for now she feels like he’s a little more hers and she’s a little more his in earnest—playing another game of chess, she pushes her queen and with a big grin at her prince says, “Checkmate.”

The prince looks up with a smirk on his face, shaking his head.  He catches her eyes, holding them with his own dark green ones as he moves a piece.  Leaning back he nods toward the board.

“No, I believe it is I who has the checkmate,” he says, his voice low and laughing.  She frowns at him as she looks down at the board.  He’s right, she’d missed that one little spot and now her king was dead… but her prince sits before her, all arrogance and pleasure.

“Damn,” she murmurs.  “I really am terrible at this.”  She looks up with a sheepish smile.

“Ah, but you’re getting better,” he says, switching off the board and standing, holding his hand out for her.  She doesn’t hesitate to take it, letting him pull her up and into his body.  “What do you say we go join our king and queen for brunch, hmm?”

Clary looks up to him, finding his warm midnight eyes looking down at her.  She feels her wrist twitch in anticipation of what might play out between the queen and herself but then she remembers her chip is gone.  But she does not really have any option, when the prince wants something she usually gives it to him because she wants to see him smile.  The motivation behind her actions lately has become more center on wanting to make her prince happy than having to.

“I suppose,” Clary mumbles but the prince—and there it is—only smiles, leaning down to capture her lips.  She makes a small noise of surprise before leaning into the kiss, looping her arms around his neck.  His muscled triceps press into her bottom, lifting her up so he doesn’t have to bend down as much to reach her lips.  His tongue sweeps into her mouth and she moans.  She might not love him yet, but damn is he a good kisser.

He pulls back, holding Clary two inches from the floor with only his arms.  “You’ll be a good little girl.  Won’t you Clary?”

She represses a small smile before smacking his shoulder.  “Put me down you spoiled jerk,” she says good naturedly, trying to sound mean but he knows she doesn’t mean it.

“Oh, you love this spoiled jerk and you know it,” he says, setting her down and tugging her to the door.  Maybe.  Clary smiles a little as they ride the elevator down, the prince’s fingers firmly woven between hers.

            She bites her lip as the doors open, the only people present at the table the king, queen, Will and… the Lightwoods.  She stops dead on the outside of the elevator, tugging the prince back as he walks forward.  Izzy is seated to the right of Will while Alec is to the left.  Their pitch black hair is groomed and their clothes… pressed with the royal seal of Idris not Portugal.  They have genuine smiles on their faces as they pick off plates of fruit, cheese, eggs and toast.

            They look like they have the happiness of a freed person after years of enslavement, a quality of happiness she has no chance of having.  The prince stops and turns back to her.  “Clary, what’s wrong?”

She tries to speak, opening her mouth but nothing comes out.  Guilt crashes down on her but her mind tells her there’s no reason to be guilty; if they’re here, eating beside the duke with no Portuguese royalty in sight, they’re free.  She’s drawn attention now, the queen and king turning to see why she and the prince are standing in the middle of the room, motionless.  Her vision’s tunneled, staring at absolutely nothing as she flashes back to all the punishments she’d been dealt and caused at Night’s House.

But she hears a high-pitched squeal, the sound of a chair being shoved back and she’s suddenly crushed against a willowy, feminine body.  She doesn’t have the sense to return the embrace as Izzy crushes her in a hug, words flying out of her mouth but Clary can’t hear them.  She can only feel the prince’s hand wrapped in hers.

After a moment, her hearing comes back but only after Izzy has turned on the prince, calling him an array of unsavory names before going into a lecture.

“What kind of unethical, disgusting dirt bag purchases an eighteen year old girl’s virginity?” she shouts at the prince.  “We’re people too you know!  Not just property to be bought and owned by pompous, spoiled, overbearing Royalty who think they are above everyone!  You’re a despicable person.  Just because you think you’re something special doesn’t mean that you have the right to buy a person like a slave!  I did not think we had returned to the Dark Ages, you egotistical bastard!”

Izzy’s arms are still wrapped around Clary, shielding her from the prince, who looks dangerously close to biting someone’s head off.  Clary is incapable of saying anything, watching the anger and irritation grow in her prince’s eyes.  She wonders why he hasn’t lashed back, putting Izzy in her place like she knows he’s fully capable of.

“Izzy!” someone scolds.  Clary glances over Izzy’s shoulder to find Will standing, frowning at Izzy who is trying to defend her friend’s integrity and rights.

The black haired girl hangs her head, “Apologies Uncle but when you’ve lived the life of an Escort you can’t help but rise to the defense of others.”  She said it with such contempt and shame that Clary couldn’t help but cringe at the thought of what the Portuguese prince could have done to her.  And it’s all her fault.  Clary hugs her elbows, removing herself from both the duke and Izzy, and steps back from her friend, right into the arms of her prince who’s moved around to stand behind her.

His arms snake around her, holding her tightly against his chest, sensing the infinitesimal shudder that is running through her body.  He runs his thumb over her wrist as Will comes over to drag Izzy back to the table, still voicing her complaints and objections as Clary sees faint looks of horror pass across her features.  It’s her fault, her fault Izzy and Alec had to be subjected to that.  Glancing at Alec, she sees the stoic expression he always wore when he was hiding something.  How horrible were the Portuguese royalty?

“We could skip breakfast little one, if that is what you wish,” her prince says, leaning down to whisper in her ear.  His grip tightens fractionally when he catches the death glare Izzy is shooting him.

The entire dining room is silent, even the king and queen have stopped in their conversation to watch the shouting baroness, the angry Heir and the silent Escort.  Clary shakes her head, throwing her shoulders back and shaking off the prince’s grip.  She strides proudly, with what little dignity she has left, over to Izzy and seats herself beside the baroness, not in the vacant chair beside where the Heir is meant to sit.  She wants to resolve what she did, find out how Izzy got out, what was done to her and her brother.

The prince watches her carefully as he moves to sit in his chair beside the king.  Conversation has started once more but the prince’s gaze remains on her, even if not directly.  Clary ignores him and fills her plate with fruit and eggs before turning to Izzy.

“How did you escape?” she asks quietly.

Izzy turns to her then and leans over, crushing her friend in an embrace.  “Simon got us out, all thanks to you Clary.”

That freezes Clary in her place.  “What?”

Izzy pulls back, smiling wide.  “You told Simon who we were sold to.  Our uncle, William, had been searching for us for years.  Our parents… they… passed a year before Alec and I were taken so Will was our only living relative.  Simon was searching too, he’s been a friend since childhood.  And just between you and me,” Izzy says, lowering her voice and looking around conspiratorially.  “I think he fancies me and I’m beginning to think I fancy him.”

“That’s…” Clary pauses, trying to get past her shock.  She might have damned the Lightwood siblings but it looks like she saved them as well.  “Amazing, Izzy.  That’s wonderful.”  Clary smiles, genuinely ecstatic that her friends escaped their enslavement… and found their family.

Clary restrains the growing hole and pang of bitter emotion in her chest.  She won’t begrudge her friends their family and happiness.  So the rest of breakfast is filled with ease and happiness and the sound of Izzy and Clary’s laughter, even if Clary isn’t entirely comfortable with the growing sadness and her prince’s hard stare.  She is always aware of the prince’s gaze as he converses with the king and occasionally the queen while Clary gets to know Will better and catch up with her friends who are now permanent residents in the castle.

Simon comes in, sweeping away dishes with other servants, but he stops by Izzy and Clary to say hello as he leans down to clear away their plates.  What almost makes Clary laugh is when Simon pecks Izzy on the cheek.  Izzy’s cheeks flame bright red all the way to her ears.

“I guess he does fancy you after all,” is all Clary has to say.

After the dishes are cleared away and Clary stands with the rest of the breakfast crowd, completely unaware of the prince for the moment, the queen beckons her over.  Clary bites her lip, reluctant to speak with the ruler of Idris, but she doesn’t really have a choice.  Not like Izzy and Alec now do.  She strolls over to the queen, dropping a shallow curtsy and not looking the ruler in the eye.

“Your Majesty,” she says, keeping her eyes on the hem of the queen’s emerald gown.

“Come for a walk with me, sweetling,” the queen says, beckoning for Clary to follow.  She does, silently, and the queen leads them out to the garden, where she and the prince had walked the day of the equestrian tournament.  She blushes at the thought of what had followed that walk.  Clary trails quietly behind the queen, who strides regally through the garden, taking a separate path than that she and the prince had.

They come, after two minutes, to a green lush courtyard, despite winter’s closeness, a bubbling fountain sparkling in its center.  Slick, white marble benches line the fountain’s perimeter and the queen sweeps down onto one, keeping her eyes on the rainbows flashing in the spraying water.

“Sit,” the queen says and not with the bite she would have expected, but the motherly sweetness that graced her stance in the dining room that first morning.  Clary sits down with all the grace of the queen but feels like an awkward, ugly duckling in presence of a graceful swan.

They sit in silence for a moment and Clary begins to drift in thoughts of what the prince is going to do to her when she gets back to the room.  After what she did at breakfast, leaving his side and sitting beside her friend that had called him essentially a selfish, capricious, amoral bastard, he’ll probably do something nasty to her.  Her prince has no control over his temper, she’s discovered these past months.  He will never raise a hand to her at least; that much she knows but he is rather creative in his exploitative ways. 

She shudders then jumps as the queen’s honeyed voice floats through air.

“I used to have a daughter.”

Clary turns toward the queen, catching the gleam of tears glistening in blue eyes.  The shock that the queen would share something so personal with her, with an Escort, shakes her to her core.

“She was the most darling little girl,” the queen continues.  “Little tufts of red-black curls, flaming blue eyes, brilliant smile.  I loved her so much that it nearly killed me when my first husband took her away fifteen years ago.  I can’t imagine why he would take mine and Lucian’s child after he abdicated the throne, nor why he abdicated.  He did not even have brothers to pass the throne to, making it even more difficult to abdicate than it already was.  No brothers, no sisters, his parents were dead and only Jonathan was left but he was only eight.   Yet he still gave it up, gave me up like some inheritance.  He went to his closest friend and councilman, Lucian.  Of course, I was outraged that I was to be handed off like a common prize to maintain the alliance between the Fairchild Empire and Idris but Lucian…”  The queen smiles faintly, as though recalling a pleasant memory long since forgotten.

“Lucian and I had been growing closer the few years previous, due to my husband’s inattentions.  When my daughter was first born, he thought she was his.  But it came to be known that, uh, she wasn’t.  I didn’t think it too terrible if Lucian was to be my new husband in place of that old tyrant and I knew he would make a much better king than Valentine.”

Clary freezes in her spot, her knuckles turning white as she grips the edge of the bench.  Valentine?!

“V-Valentine, your majesty,” Clary stutters softly.

“Yes, my dear, Valentine.  After he abdicated, he still resided in the castle for a few years.  And in those few years he was only ever quiet and reserved, never leaving his rooms even long enough to visit with Jonathan.  I began to feel sorry for the poor boy, he himself began to lock himself in his suite or spar with the castle security in the time he spent outside his rooms.  I tried speaking with him or bonding with him, but by the time I’d plucked up the courage to talk to my stepson he’d turned away all human contact because of Valentine’s abandonment.  All contact except my new born daughter, Lucian and mine’s first child.  I don’t know what it was, they weren’t even related, not by blood at least and one would have expected Jonathan to hate the child that belonged to the man who took his father’s place as king but no, he didn’t.  He would always show up at my door to my rooms and ask to come in while she was laying in her crib and read to her or sit on the couch with her in his lap while her children’s shows were playing.  It was the only time I saw him smile, laugh, or even speak.  He loved her much more than I think he should have been able to.”

A wistful look comes over the queen’s face as one tear streaks down her flawless cheek.  Clary has no idea why the queen would be telling her this and questions swirl in her mind in a torrent.  Valentine was king?  He took the queen’s daughter?  Who was the daughter?  Is she alive?  Why?  Why did Valentine sink to Escort trafficking after being the king of Idris?

Her throat closes at the unimaginable possibility forming in her head.  She’s never been that lucky, she’s not that kind of person either.  It’s not possible.  Even if it was true, why was she abandoned to the foster care system of New York?  Her heart sinks as she realizes that, how absurd it is to hope that she’s the long lost princess, and it crushes the small budding flower of hope under the cold, hard boot of reality.  No, she ducks her head, hiding tears threatening to fall.  No one would abandon a princess, especially one Heir to the Fairchild Empire, in an empty apartment complex.

Her heart crushed, she sits quietly, letting the queen work through her own emotions as she dredges up this story from what looks like a long and painful past.

“On my daughter’s third birthday, she was stolen.  Gone from her crib in the middle of the night as well as Valentine from his bed. The whole castle was in an uproar, Valentine’s rooms were empty, her crib had been turned over; everything was utter chaos.  But Jonathan, my poor boy, only sat in my baby’s empty room, staring at the cradle for hours after he found out.  The only person he had bonded with was gone, and that was the last time I saw him smile, truly smile or laugh.”  The queen stopped, turning toward Clary, whose head was still tilted down, stifling tears after she let her hopes get the better of her.

She’ll never deserve anything more than being a slave, a prisoner to someone else’s whims.  Though, her prince is not at all a bad person.  He respects her space, her privacy, her free will but it is still freedom given, not freedom retained.  She’s still a prisoner, still an Escort.  Still a nobody.

“That is until you, sweetling.”

Clary’s head snaps up, uncaring that her face is probably red.  “What?”

“My son, even though he despises me calling him that, hasn’t truly smiled for fifteen years until you came into his life.  I see the way he acts around you.  How on edge he always is as he scans a room as though someone might jump out and steal you away.  How he always remains close to you.  How he looks at you… it’s the way he used to look at her… with a little something more…”  The queen trails off for a moment.  “You’ll have to forgive me, but if you are who I think you are, Jonathan would know.  I don’t fault him for keeping it a secret if it is true.  I don’t blame him for wanting to keep my baby hidden after you were stolen from him and me and Lucian at such a young age.  When you go back to your rooms, make sure to tell him that.  Tell him that there isn’t any need to be scared, if you are her, that he doesn’t need to hide you.  He’s not the only one who lost someone they love that day.”

The queen turns away then, tears in her eyes, and focuses on the fountain.  “I apologize if I frightened you, and if I do prove to be wrong, I apologize for, how do they say it?  Pouring my heart out to you?”  The queen turns back, her motherly smile touching her lips.  “Even if you are not her, I would like to get to know you better, darling.”

She reaches a loving hand up to brush away a sun streaked curl from Clary’s cheek.

“Your majesty,” Clary says but it comes out a whisper and she has to clear her throat, finding it difficult to speak around the lump in her throat.  What a dream it would be to have a family, a mother.  But it’s just not possible, not for someone like her.  “Your majesty, I’m here for you to speak with, always.  I will tell the prince what you said, though listening to your story and knowing him now, I don’t think he would be one to compromise the safety of such a beloved person.  He’d be scared she’d be taken from him again.”  Her own voice trails off, realizing how much she really intimately knew about the prince.  That she knows so much she can make that inference.  “But I will ask him to dig out my papers, where ever he’s placed them, so we can put your mind at ease.”

Clary stands, brushing off her dress of nonexistent dirt, only needing something for her trembling hands to do.  “I am sorry, but I do not think it possible I’m your daughter.  With someone of my background, I’d hardly ever be even distantly related to royalty, let alone the daughter of the queen of the Fairchild Empire and king of one of the most powerful countries in the world.  I offer my condolences,” Clary says with a curtsy before she leaves.  Leaving the queen to stare after the small, lithe woman, walking with the exact, purposeful stride of her mother.

 

Clary holds back her tears.  She won’t let her emotions get the best of her, won’t let hope try and build something so ridiculous only to have it knocked down with a few inked words.  Even though she walks steadily through the gardens, as soon as she reaches the castle, she bolts for the stairs, completely disregarding the elevator.  She runs up the many flights, barely even panting as she tries to shove all thoughts from her head.

Reaching the bridge spanning the throne room, she slows to a walk, banishing all thoughts of that possibility from her mind, just like she’s so good at.  She runs a hand through her hair, probably making it look messy and tousled but she doesn’t care.  She needs the touch of her prince all of a sudden.  She needs it.  It feels as though it will comfort her on a level unknown to her.  She doesn’t know when this became a development but it’s true.

She makes it to the prince’s quarters, slowly edging the door open before stepping over the threshold.  She doesn’t get far as the door is slammed shut behind her and she’s pinned against the wall in a flash.  The prince’s face is shadowed with a wicked smirk, tiny sparks of anger dancing in his dark eyes.

“I think you’ve been a bad girl,” he whispers, leaning down to brush his lips over her cheekbone.  Her eyelids flutter shut and she leans her head back against the door, letting the feel of her prince wash over her in stifling waves.

“Have I?” she whispers mindlessly, creasing her eyebrows at the fervent emotions tearing through her.  Her palms are flat against the wall behind her and the prince’s looming form cages her in, pulling her under a dark veil of seduction.

“Yes,” he purrs.  “And I believe you should be punished for it.”

Clary blindly nods her head, swallowing a lump in her throat.  Anything, anything to wipe away the torment caused by the queen’s story.  She hears the prince purr before she’s thrown over his shoulder, one hand on her bottom, the other pulling off her shoes and discarding them as he walks to the bedroom.

Her breath leaves her as she’s thrown down onto the bed, the prince jumping on top of her.  Her eyes remain closed as the prince strips her down to her underwear, not even leaving her with her bra.  He lowers his still fully clothed body over her mostly naked one, caging her in with his rippling biceps.  His mouth grazes her ear and she turns her head, baring her neck for him.

His teeth scrape against her skin as he kisses up the column of her throat.  She arches up into his hard body, digging her nails into his shoulders.  He groans from her neck, reaching up to grab one wrist and pulling away from her to grab the other.  She whimpers, bucking her hips as the prince places her wrists together in one hand and holds them above her head.

She refuses to look at him, refuses to see the little boy who lost his family and the one girl he’d bonded with.  Refuses to see the man that hasn’t smiled in fifteen years until she came into his life.  All she wants to know in this moment is pleasure.  Feel his calloused, skilled hands work her body in that masterful way of his, feel the silk caressing her wrists as he ties her wrists together, his hot breath blowing over her bare breasts before he takes one into his hot mouth.

She gasps, her face buried in the comforter, as she feels his tongue swirl around her nipple and his teeth pressing down lightly, but harsh enough that she cries out.  He laughs quietly, leaning back on his knees to straddle her hips.  She feels his hands, running over her flat stomach, her hips, her thighs.  She moans as his fingers brush the cotton of her underwear, right where she’s burning in need for him.  She wants him to sweep her away.  To engulf her in sensation and heat and ecstasy.

She tugs at the silk binding her hands but finds it secure, no doubt part of her ‘punishment.’  The prince’s heat sears her skin as he leans down over her, his button up shirt brushing over her pert nipples, making her press up into him.  His fingers brush over her chin, raising gooseflesh, before he gently grabs her chin and turns her face up toward his.  She keeps her eyes tightly shut.

His thumb strokes her jaw, making her sigh but she can feel his nose brushing over her cheek, kissing her cheekbone before pulling away. 

“Why don’t you look at me, little flower?”

“It’s disrespectful,” Clary murmurs, all too aware after the queen’s story of how lowly she is compared to the prince.  She’s a whore he bought to sate his sexual need and Clary had been letting that slip her mind these past few weeks.  She’s his inferior.

“Why would it be disrespectful?  Is it disrespectful when I look at you?” the prince asks, playful petulance lacing his voice.  Clary keeps her eyes shut.

“I’m your Escort, prince.  Nothing more than bought property.”

The prince springs into action at her words, flipping her over and smacking her on the rear, hard enough to leave a slight sting.  She cries out, her eyes flying open, her face softly pressed against the mattress as the prince settles his body over her back.

“What did I tell you Clary?” the prince asks gently, stroking the now sore part of her backside, slowly pulling down her panties as he dips his head to lick her ear.  “You’re my bought nothing.  I view you as my equal and I won’t tolerate the demolition of your image.  Understand?”

“Yes,” she moans as his fingers slip between her thighs and past her panties, delving into her core.  She clenches around him but that only makes him curl his fingers inside her.  She pushes her hips back into his body, but he only lays over her, pinning her to the bed.  She doesn’t care she just blatantly lied to her prince, she just needs him to blind her.

Her bound hands are tucked under her chest as her prince peels himself from her body.  He lifts her hips to pull away her underwear.  She blushes at how vulnerable this position makes her, how animalistic and primal she’s always thought this position to be. She’s always viewed it as something for the man’s pleasure, not the woman’s.  The woman always faces away while the man does what he pleases, the woman helpless to do anything.

She yelps as his lips touch the sore and probably red mark on her butt cheek.  His surprisingly cool lips soothe the heat in her skin.  His hands curl around her thighs, lifting her hips up as he presses more chaste kisses against her rear.

“You don’t seem to understand how much I love you, Clary,” he mutters against her skin.  “You don’t seem to comprehend how much you mean to me, how lovely you are, how kind you are, how thoughtful.  I can’t imagine why you would want to hide behind petty rules that, as I’ve said before, no longer exist now that your safe with me.”

Her breath catches, he said the words.  Those three words that aren’t supposed to exist for someone like her.  But there they are, hanging in the air, draped over her skin as the prince runs his hands along her silken thighs, traveling to the button of his jeans.  She hears the zipper and the soft downfall of the jeans to the floor.  She clenches her core in anticipation, she hates not seeing how close he is, when he’ll take her.

“Are your eyes open?” she hears the prince question and she turns her face into the covers.

“Yes,” she replies and suddenly he is covering her, enveloping her body.  Her skin prickles at his nearness and she jumps as his fingers trail directly down her spine.  As he reaches the base of her spine, she moans.  He leans down to whisper in her ear.

“Close them.”  His hot breath ghosts over her skin.

She buries her face in the covers and his hands cup her bottom.  She shivers as he bends over her, pressing his lips to the base of her spine.  His tongue licks over her vertebrate and she groans, his mouth moving over her bum.  His hands brush over her thighs before he flattens his body over hers, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her up against him.

“No more leaving me at the breakfast table, alright?” he asks quietly, not really threatening but firm with his regal command. 

She whimpers before nodding, letting out a long, low moan as he slowly slides into her, burying himself to the hilt.  She pulls desperately at her bound hands but they stay tied, the prince’s hands splaying across her stomach as he begins to slowly stroke forward.  The prince sighs against her neck, dipping his nose into the crook between shoulder and throat.

“I don’t want to hear you ever say how worthless you are, because you’re not.  You’re worth more to me than all the pompous Nobility in this castle,” he whispers, pressing his pelvis against her buttocks.  His heat cascades over her, wiping away her suffocating emotions, replacing it with a dark embrace and a paralyzing ecstasy.  He has to be lying, why would he be saying this?  She’s just an Escort.  She can’t be the queen’s daughter, the prince’s long lost childhood friend.

He stops for a moment, sitting back on his knees and pulling her up onto his lap, still facing away from him.  He traces his fingers over the delicate skin of her neck, his other moving south to stroke her as he thrusts back into her.  Clary throws her head back, moaning at the contact.  She has to stop thinking about that, she needs to let his darkness smother her fear and rage and hope until she can just enjoy being where she is, in her prince’s bed.

She moves her own enchained hands down to where he’s teasing her, making her pleasure roil through her body with a fierce heat.  She grabs his wrist, leaning heavily against his muscled chest.  Her fingers do nothing to stop his as he uses a knee to spread her thighs wider and thrust deeper into her.  Clary’s face rolls to the side on her prince’s shoulder and he takes the opportunity to capture her lips in a swift passionate kiss before Clary is driven over the edge into pure bliss.

She cries out as her emotions flare but she can’t help but feel the slight kernel of self-loathing and despair planted in her stomach.  A welcome reminder of who she really is and a shield to help her remember what she is.  A prince’s property.

The prince doesn’t make a sound as he climaxes, she only feels his rigid muscles grow taut against her back and his hand cupping her still.  There’s a moment of utter silence and it deafens her.  It stretches in the few moments after the prince’s climax.  He wasn’t enough to wipe away her feeling.

She sinks back against him, her hands still tied, head still resting on his shoulder, lips still brushing his lightly.  He gives her another lingering kiss before easing out of her, lowering her onto the bed on her back.  Clary’s chest is heaving as the prince tenderly nips at her breasts but she’s too worn out to react so she only lays there, a slave to the prince’s whims.

Her manacled hands lay above her head and the prince reaches for them, pulling on the silk and causing the material to unravel gently.  He takes her by the wrists, delicately pulling her up once more.  Now instead of silken bonds, they’re of muscle and sinew, strong, ironclad hands circling her wrists.  She doesn’t look at him.  She doesn’t want to see the pleasure her body brought him.

His arms settle gently around her waist as he presses his forehead to hers, trying to get her to look at him but she only closes her eyes.  Her breathing slows from heavy gusts to little spurts through her nose.  He brushes her lips with his, teasing her, trying to draw her out of her shell.  But she doesn’t want to come out, she wants to keep her true feelings and thoughts hidden away, locked tight so they have no chance of hurting her.  So she kisses him back, mustering up a smile and forcing her arms around his neck.

He groans before she releases his lips but the hungry prince leans forward for more.  Clary places her fingers on his lips, still hot and swollen from their kiss, to stop him.  He nips at her fingers, making her pull away with a little grin.

“I’m going to take a shower.  You’re welcome to join me,” she says, sliding off the bed and hoping he does not take her up on her offer.  She needs a few moments alone, to sort through all the queen told her and the sinking feeling in her stomach.

The prince smirks handsomely, and butterflies take wing in place of the sinking feeling, lifting her up.  She almost frowns at what just his smirk can do to her.  “No.  I think I’ll wash later.  I’d be too tempted for another go round if I followed you into that shower.”

Her cheeks flame despite herself as she nods and heads down the hall, stark naked to shut herself in the bathroom.  Turning on the shower, she rubs her fingers against her temples.  How stupid could she be?  How could she ever be a princess?  A childhood companion of an Heir, of Idris no less.  She slides a hand down her neck, to the slightly puckered scar at the base of her hairline.  Her memories flash between those of her foster father and the night she lost her virginity to the prince.

Both so different, yet the same.  Both forcing, in some sense, themselves on her.  Both viewing her as nothing more than a little girl with no control.  She steps inside the shower, letting the hot, burning water soothe over her skin, burning away her weakness, replacing it with a flaming resolve.  Not to let anyone see inside her, her tortured past.

Looking back she feels utterly foolish for telling the prince about her childhood, of how worthless she’d been and still is.  It probably only made him view her as a faulty purchase, a broken toy.  She wonders why he hasn’t just gotten rid of her yet.  Why does he keep messing with her mind by lying to her, telling her she’s important?  Does he enjoy sick mind games?  Does he like watching her struggle and writhe?

She feels trapped now, trapped by the prince, by her own mental barriers she’s put in place to protect herself and her past from further scrutiny.  That feeling of freedom, she realizes only now, that the prince had elicited in the past months has now been crushed, captured and caged by what the queen had said.  Those words had shattered the augmented reality she had built for herself.  For a few moments, she’d fooled herself into thinking that she was happy and could make her own choices.

How stupid is she?  Even if she did have freedom, it wouldn’t come from her.  The prince would be allowing her to do something, to live her own life.  A granted freedom even with a long leash that the prince could yank back and keep tightly by his side anytime he chose is no freedom at all.  She scrapes her wet hair from her face as she turns off the shower, toweling dry without really thinking before pulling on a new pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt in the bedroom.

Not like she has any plans of leaving the prince’s quarters again anytime soon.  Brunch had dragged on into the afternoon earlier and the queen’s little ‘surprise talk’ had lasted maybe an hour.  Along with the prince’s slow, methodical torture, she’d been taken into the early evening and with winter closing in soon, the sun has already set.  She slowly makes her way out into the living room, wholly intending to go sit on the balcony and wallow in self-loathing had the prince not been standing beside the couch.  He also wore a sweatshirt that, though loose, showed off his hard masculine lines and rigid muscles, along with a pair of black sweats that hugged his thighs before flaring around his calves.  His feet were bare.

It looks as though he’s already had a shower despite Clary occupying his for the past who knows how long.  She stops at the edge of the hallway, not daring to set foot in the living room where her prince’s dark eyes gleam in the dim moonlight filtering through the sheers on the balcony windows.  She feels her face heat, her eyes widen like a doe in headlights before she swipes them away and replaces them with a smile that feels and probably looks fake despite her best efforts.

The prince frowns at her and her smile drops, fear settling coldly in her stomach.  Had she done something to displease him?  Out of the corner of her eye she notices his two hounds lounging on the sofa, just as they always did on and off for the past months, coming into the prince’s suites when they seemingly had time to bother him.  One, Sterling, leaps off the couch and barrels toward her.  He jumps up excitedly, so tall on his hind legs that he manages to lick her cheek.

She smiles slightly before pushing him away, turning her attention to her prince who hasn’t spoken a silky, lilting word or moved a taut, hard muscle.  Sterling circles her, brushing up against her legs with his muscled, furred rib cage.  She absently runs her hand along his back, feeling exceedingly awkward as the prince continues to pour over her with his burning, dark velvet gaze.  She can feel it like a brand upon her skin.

She almost startles as the prince snaps a sharp word in Idrian that has Sterling sulking back over to his side.  Clary purses her lips, concerned but not daring to meet his caustic gaze.  She feels like a child twiddling her thumbs in front of a grown-up who knows she’s done something wrong.  The prince’s silence now seems to be trying to force words out of her mouth, anything to assuage the prince’s harsh stare.

“Come here,” he demands, not bothering to soften the sharp edges of his words that make her cringe.  But she obeys him nonetheless, slinking smoothly over to him, careful to keep a good foot of space between them.  Sterling tries to move forward, wanting attention or to relieve what has to be her obvious stress but the prince snaps at the dog in his language again, sending him skulking back over to Silver on the couch.  They exchange quiet yips before he jumps on the couch and settles beside Silver, laying his head over her neck protectively, curling his slightly larger body around hers.

That isn’t a good sign.  If the prince’s displeasure is potent enough that even the dogs sense it, what does that mean for her?  She wishes she knew what is causing it so she can alleviate it, if only to rid the room of this tension that is sinking into her bones with each passing second, drawing her muscles tight.  She doesn’t dare look up at him, keeping her eyes on the floor, thankful for the darkness covering her own unease.

“Do you believe me to be an idiot, Clary?” the prince says quietly and she’s surprised at how soft his voice is, whereas just a moment ago it was demanding, harsh, the voice of a ruler.

She shakes her head frantically, closing her eyes as shame and guilt rise in her throat.  What did she do to put him in this mood?  Did he finally decide to rid himself of her and her problems?  She wouldn’t blame him if he did but what scares her is the possibility of going back to Valentine, whom she’s barely even spoken to her prince about.

The prince’s fingers curl under her chin and lift her face towards his.  Her eyes are still squeezed shut, her body virtually trembling with fear.  She notices how close the heat of his body is and knows he’s crossed the foot she’d put between them in an effort to protect herself.

“Then why do you lie so blatantly to me when I can see the pain and torture upon your delicate features as clear as day?  Why do you believe you’re capable of deceiving me?”  His voice is rich, lilting, soft; midnight dark green velvet caressing her skin and wrapping itself around her body like a lover’s caress.

“I don’t wish to bother you with my own problems, your Highness.  I don’t think it fair that you bought me with the expectation of pleasure only to receive a purchase with damage,” she replies softly.

His fingers tighten on her jaw and she can tell he wants to shake her, just from the tension radiating from his body.  His quiet growl almost makes her pull away but she stays, not wanting to incite anymore of his anger.

“Why do you insist on presenting yourself as property?”

Her eyes fly open and she meets his gaze, despite the piercing chill that runs down her back.  Anger and weariness at his sick mental game warm her stomach, rising in her throat.

“Why do you insist I lie?  You bought me did you not?  You paid a fortune just to own my virginity rights?” she snaps, her voice biting and acidic, years of anger and repression rising up and pouring into her voice.

The prince, to her shock, does not slap her for her insolence but his mouth curls up in a proud smirk, as though he was pining for a reaction from her all along.

“I cannot buy what doesn’t belong to me,” he whispers darkly, not releasing her chin.

The color drains from her face and she shoves at his chest, making his hand drop from her chin as she takes a step back.

“What do you mean?”

He takes a step toward her, his face softening as he snakes his arms around her waist.

“I mean that you were never owned by me, you were never sold to me.  No money exchanged hands, nothing was signed.  You were liberated, so you could go home.  You always belonged with me,” he says quietly, “in Idris where you were born.”  His voice has now turned soothing; black velvet once again wrapping around her.

“What?” Clary stammers.  It can’t be true can it?  Hope and confliction rise up in her stomach, turning her mind around until it can’t tell up from left.  She doesn’t have the thought process to shove him away.  If she really is, does she want to be a Royal?  The banes of her existence?

“Is that not what the queen discussed with you?  She finally revealed her growing suspicion that you are her daughter.  That you were my childhood playmate, our beloved princess, my soulmate.”

“B-but, that isn’t possible,” Clary says, looking away from her prince.  The cruel manipulators and viruses of this world, how can she be one?  How can her prince be one?  He’s nothing like she imagined a Royal to be.  Nor are the king and queen.  Certainly not Will.  “I can’t be a-a princess.  My parents abandoned me.  If Valentine took me when he fled the castle, why did he leave me to the foster care system only to take me prisoner twelve years later?” 

Clary looks up at her prince now, desperately searching his face for something, something saying that he is joking.  This can’t be true, it doesn’t make any sense!

His warm, strong arms are supporting her weight, her knees having gone weak moments ago.  “You are a princess, little flower.  Princess Clary Adele Fairchild, betrothed of the Heir of Idris, Heir herself to the Fairchild Empire” he says, slightly haughty but altogether happy, smiling, amused even.  “From what I’ve learned, you were taken from Valentine upon his arrival in New York, lost to him by some filthy man wanting to rear you as his own and claim the reward the queen had put out for your return.”

Clary’s knees have given out completely and the prince sweeps her up, bringing her over to the couch and settling her in his lap.  A Royal?  The patrons to the Night’s House?  But, Idris is different.  Her prince is different.  Maybe the Fairchild Empire is the exception?

“Then why was I—” Clary can’t speak anymore, a lump forming in her throat. 

“From what you’ve told me, this man that stole you, you’re first ‘foster father’ grew impatient and lusty,” he says with venom and contempt strong enough to kill an elephant.  “And that made him sloppy.  He was discovered by social services and you were taken away, him thrown in jail.  You were lost to Valentine by then, if he had any lead on who’d taken you.  You were lost to the foster system.  That was until you decided to run away.  Valentine must have spotted you some two years later out on the streets and recaptured you.”

He nuzzles his nose into her neck, softly, reverently, reveling in each touch and feel of her.  No, something doesn’t sound right, but her head hurts too much to follow the thought.

“But why did he take me in the first place?”  Clary whispers, staring blankly into the dark room.  She is trying to remember if his assumption matched up with her memory but it is painfully fuzzy.

“I do not know, little one,” he says quietly, leaning back against the couch, keeping his body curled around hers.  And suddenly, instead of the fear that had been rushing through her, comfort sweeps the fear away.  Comfort from the prince’s warm embrace and the knowledge that she wasn’t hated by her parents.  That she has a family.  But also an overwhelming sadness.

She was taken from her mother and father at the age of three.  She didn’t get to grow up with them, with her prince.  He suffered unnecessarily because of his father just as much as she had at the hands of Valentine.

“It might have been jealousy.  He might have realized it was a mistake to give up his throne and his wife and taken you out of spite.  It might have been as a bargaining chip to regain what he lost.  It might have been for the money of rearing such an important princess, an Heir no less, as an Escort from a young age to sell.  I do not know, nor do I care now that I have you back.”

He really does care about her.  He’s been worried and caring about her for the past fifteen years, searching everywhere for her, just to get her back.  A thought strikes her, causing her to frown.

“But how did you find me?  And why didn’t you tell the queen?”

He gives a short, soft laugh to that.

“I found you by finding my father.  He was smart to keep you tucked away in his little Night’s House.  I only found him after he regained custody of you.  Ten years, Clary, and I had no idea where you were.  Valentine came out then with advertisements of a precious virgin, an Heir, worth more than any other Escort.  Of course he only used news links and channels that did not reach Idris, wanting to hide you for whatever purpose.  I had to bide my time though, knowing that Valentine would have hidden you away in some remote corner of the world had there been any hint that an Idrian had found you, recognized you.

“At least for the first three years, then he grew careless, sloppy and I had already secured a bid on you by this time.  One any of the Royals or Nobles can place on any Escort that they are interested in but are under age.  Finally, after six years, that tyrant finally put you to auction like some common toy.  When I arrived at the auction in New York and he stepped onto that stage I wanted to wring his neck for treating you like a slave, not a princess, for taking you away from Idris, from the queen, from me.  Of course when I arrived, I didn’t have any of the Royal seals upon my suit of any of my security guards, for Valentine had still closed the auction to any from the Fairchild Empire.

“So I placed my bid and barely managed not to kill my father on the spot.  I had to leave before you were brought out, for risk that Valentine would recognize me and when you stepped onto that plane I knew I’d found you.  My little Clary, returned,” he says and she swears his voice caught in his throat.

She sinks back against him, letting him cling to her, feeling his need like a living, breathing thing. 

“I never paid the bastard.  I wasn’t going to give him what he wanted after all he stole from me.  My childhood, my parents, my happiness, you.  I’m still waiting for him to dare and demand the money, to find out just who bought his stolen princess.”

“But why hide my identity from me, from my mother and father?”  Her words catch in her throat, tinged with anger and something else, coating her mouth with a foreign sweetness.  Mother, how many times had she wished for a woman to call such a title?  How many times had she wished for a man to call father?  Shocked, she tries to let the knowledge sink in.  She’s not happy because she’s a Royal but because she has a family.

The prince, Jonathan now, her animosity towards calling him by his name now somewhat pointless, sighs against her skin, pulling her closer to him.  “Greed,” he states simply.  “I wanted to keep you to myself after all those years of loneliness.  I wanted to see who’d you’d become, what you were like, gauge your reaction on the news of your real identity.  I didn’t want to pull you out of an organization notorious for mental manipulation and drop the news of your real identity on you.  I really didn’t know who you were or how you would react.  I wanted to make sure you adjusted first, slowly ease you into a new life and start stripping away all the damage Valentine had inflicted though it is so much more than I first believed.  And for that I am eternally sorry.

“I needed to see just exactly who you were and how you reacted to certain things.  I’m sorry I waited so long, but you wouldn’t have believed me if I’d told that first day.  I didn’t want to risk telling you with the chip in your arm either.  I had a suspicion that was confirmed by Will that there was a listening device implanted in the chip.  So I had to act like a patron to a certain extent before I got it removed.  I apologize for that but I’ve tried to subtly tell you that you’re free, not an Escort.

“But you’ve continued to insist on your position as an Escort so I knew that it would be difficult to help you recover from whatever Valentine put you through.  Though the queen has now expedited my plans.

“I did it for your safety as well; if I had announced the lost princess had been returned to Idris, Valentine might have come back or raised an army to take you back.  I suspect that is what the wraith was, the day after you arrived, Valentine attempting to rob me and my country of you once more, except only permanently to either spite the queen, the king or myself, I couldn’t tell you.”

Clary is silent for a long while, partially allowing Jonathan to hold her close, the other out of shock.  She has a family, a name.  She’s not just a worthless whore, she matters to people.  She’s loved… and betrothed to the Heir of Idris.  Her mouth goes dry.  The queen hadn’t mentioned being betrothed to Jonathan since birth.  No wonder he had been so patient in taking her virginity.  He wanted to make sure she gave it to him of her own free will because she actually matters to him.  She’s an actual person.  But, in truth, if she’s his betrothed, he owned her virginity anyway, but Clary can’t find the anger at the moment to be angry at him.  At least for now.

Clary actually smiles, leaning back against Jonathan, savoring the feel of him with a new appreciation, feeling as though years of leaden weights are being lifted from her shoulders, making her feel light and free, just as he’d managed to do without even needing to tell her, her true identity. 

Her head lolls back against his shoulder and his breath ghosts up the side of her throat, his arms secured around her waist, his legs encircling her body.  A shiver runs through her before Jonathan presses his burning mouth to hers, shooting adrenaline and pure endorphins through her body.  She smiles, a genuine smile, against his mouth, reaching up to tangle her fingers in his ivory hair.

She knows she should be feeling some sense of anger but she can’t bring herself to blame this scarred man about keeping his lost friend, betrothed and soul mate to himself after fifteen years of suffering, eight years of a torrential and terrible childhood.  How could she?

His warm hands press against her flat stomach as his tongue caresses her lips.  His heat sparks her own, causing it to pool lower in her body.  He pulls away after a moment, brushing his lips over the corner of her mouth and cheek.

“I suppose you’ll want me to be calling you your highness now, eh?” the prince asks, hot breath blowing over her skin.  Clary smiles, turning in his arms to kneel over him.  She runs her thumbs over his high perfect cheekbones.  His dark eyes sparkle in the moonlight now, his previous agitation and anger gone, replaced by what Clary can now openly deem as love.

“I like your little nicknames for me just fine, Jonathan,” she whispers, not giving him a moment to register his shock that she’d called him by his name before crushing her mouth to his.  He falls back on the couch, enveloping her with his body despite her being on top of him.  She laughs before pushing her hands under his sweatshirt, finding it the only thing between her and his hot skin.  He smiles in return before dragging her close against his body and taking what he wants after fifteen years of loneliness.

“I’m still mad at you,” she whispers.

“I know, but I love you anyway,” he replies.

She sighs.  “I love you too.”

 


	8. Battle of Powers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Clary is my flesh and blood and you would do well to remember that... so tread carefully.”

The winter wind blows softly outside balcony doors, causing the thick curtains to rustle minutely.  The moon shines, a rounded, silver disk hanging in the sky, casting its wan light upon the stone of the castle.  Inside the prince’s rooms, Clary and Jonathan lie, asleep, content.  Simon had come earlier to service his prince and to deliver messages but had only discovered him enveloped in a thick fur blanket, made from a black bear hide, whom the prince had hunted last winter in the forest, reclining on the couch.  He’d had a lazy smile on his face, one arm wrapped around a smaller, obscured figure, obviously asleep, her glinting hair crazy and spilling across his bare chest.

Other than sharp words, the prince had seemed… happy, which was very odd for him. Simon was unable to deliver his message, being dismissed swiftly for the reason that Jonathan’s fiancée was asleep, and did not want her disturbed.  So the page had left, leaving the prince to hold his naked little princess close to his body, close to his heart, never willing to ever let go.  Thus with her pressed tightly against him, her head resting on his shoulder, he’d sunken down on the couch and gone to sleep.  

Now, Jonathan sighs quietly, allowing himself to smile genuinely for the first time in a long time.  His princess is happy, only slightly upset with him and the news, if not a little disturbed, therefore he is happy.  Her full pink lips are slightly parted in sleep, begging him to lean down and kiss her awake but he resists, acknowledging that she could use the extra sleep, as well as it’s only the first streaks of dawn light cutting through the dull gray of the sky.  He can tell that today, the clouds will not surrender to the sun, they will cover the sky in an endless gray-white blanket.  Today, it’s going to snow.

His dogs lie at his feet, where they’ve been trained to lay, sleeping as soundly as his little princess with the occasional whine of dream.  He leans back, settling down onto the couch and Clary’s body automatically shifts, leg wrapping around his and small, delicate hand clenching on his chest before relaxing.  He smooths his hand over her wild red-black mane of curls, observing the weak light bouncing from the reddish strands to create fire.

He’s startled when Clary gasps, her bright blue eyes flying open.  Jonathan leans down, brushing black hair from her face, kissing her cheeks to soothe her.  Clary doesn’t take long to calm down, burying her face in his chest.

“Clary, what’s wrong,” he questions, trying to coax the black haired beauty to look at him.  She won’t budge, keeping her cold nose pressed against his warm chest.

He scowls at her defiance, wanting to know what troubles her so he can whisk it away on a cloud of ecstasy.  He snakes his hand down under the thick fur blanket, between their bodies and is satisfied when he finds her core radiating heat.  Gently, he pushes his fingers between her folds and strokes the little bundle of nerves.  She gasps again and looks up at him, wiggling her hips as though in protest.  Her wide blue eyes are filled with lust but he wants to know why she woke up gasping when she’d fallen asleep with his body firmly lodged in hers.

“Why did you wake up gasping?” he asks, slowly moving his fingers, spreading the moist heat now building between her legs.  She gives a quiet moan, her lids fluttering shut and head tilting back.

“It’s nothing…nnh…just a nightmare,” she says quietly, bucking her hips forward, drawing attention to the part of her he can feel throb in need.

He only laughs, shifting to throw his leg over her and straddling her small, naked body.  He moves his fingers down, giving his little flower something to gasp about as he plunges two fingers into her wet, feminine heat.  Clary moans, her eyes still closed, head still thrown back as she rides his hand but he gently takes her chin and tilts it so she looks at him.

“Open your eyes, little one,” he coaxes, his fingers dipping into her at a maddeningly slow pace.  He can feel himself grow hard at the very sight of Clary’s arousal.  When she doesn’t, he withdraws his fingers.  He smiles at her little gasp of protest that has her eyes flying open.  As soon as her blue eyes meet his glowing hazel ones, his fingers surge back into her, causing her to cry out.  Leaning down, he draws at her lower lip, his fingers slick and moist between her legs, speeding up now, his thumb stroking her clitoris.  “Now, what nightmare did you have?”

He wants to know so he can wipe it away, drown it and her fears in a sea of ecstasy as his hard, needy body plunges into her tight, wet one.  He can’t help the kiss he pulls Clary into, pillaging her mouth with his tongue.  She gasps at the intensity of his kiss, her hands flying to the back of his neck to lock him to her.  His hand is moving frantically now, pushing Clary closer and closer to her shattering point.  He smiles against her lips as he feels her clench around his fingers, her body tensing with waves of pleasure.

He pulls back and finds Clary panting beneath him, staring up at him with glazed blue eyes.  “It was—Valentine,” she gasps.  “He—he was… it…” She shakes her head, tears brimming in her eyes at the repressed pleasure and sheer torture of her memory.  “I… ah… can’t.”

Jonathan frowns down at her, concern more than anger saturating his conscious.   He has an overwhelming urge to protect her, to keep her close to his chest.  She’s his, no one else’s.  He also wants to make sure he’s the only one who gets to touch her in her most feminine spot; that assuredly belongs to him.

He likes to see her writhe helplessly in pleasure, trapped beneath him, driving her so high she has difficulty coming back down.  He moves his fingers again, pulling a quiet, delicious moan from her lips, her eyes still not breaking contact.  “You can tell me, little one.”  He leans down, drawing her earlobe between his teeth and suckling.  She moans faintly.  “You’re safe here with me.  I promise no one will ever hurt you again.  You’re mine, and what’s mine is always protected.”

A small sob escapes her lips, a mixture between pleasure and anguish but he makes sure to keep his movements slow, careful, melodious; one movement flowing into the next so no fissure can disrupt the peace he is slowly settling over his little princess.

“It…It was only Valentine—ahh—he used to whip me with his belt,” she whispers, her eyes now closed, face turned away and burning a sweet cherry red in shame.

Jonathan makes sure not to let his anger spill over into his features or actions.  He’ll never put her through that again, he’ll ensure she never flinches from him, always turns to him for comfort.  His dogs are still asleep at the foot of the couch but he knows they’re devoted to his little flower, will protect her at any cost.  It feels like he’s being naughty, committing midnight debauchery in secret with the coveted crown princess.  He smiles, hiding his rage at his father as he leans down a presses soft, chaste kisses to her cheek, the corner of her mouth until he’s coaxed her into turning her mouth to his so he can fully claim what’s his.

Clary moans again at his fiery intensity, her body shattering once more into a thousand pieces that Jonathan will pick up momentarily only to shatter them again with his body.  He pulls his fingers from her, sliding his hands up her sides and cupping her hips, arching her back into him. 

“You’re safe now,” he whispers, feeling her begin to tremble, minute shivers that seize her body.  “No man will ever lay a hand on you again, I promise.”

Even through her trembling she manages a short, breathless giggle.  “You sure seem to have much more than just your hands on me… oohhh,” she moans, throwing her head back as he slides home inside her.

“Little flower, I’m no man.  I’m your prince and today, I’ll rule you,” he says, his voice gone deep and husky as he begins to move, pulling her hips up to his, stroking his body into hers with short sweet movements that quickly turn to long, fast ones.  His hands take in the bounty of her soft skin, his palms scraping over her hard nipples, kneading her breasts before wrapping her leg around his waist, spreading her legs wider to drive deeper.

He growls in satisfaction, feeling the wet heat caressing his body, fueling the fire rushing through his veins.  He takes her lips again, crushing her body to his, sealing them together so she cannot get away from him, never again.  He doesn’t think he can live without her anymore.  He’d spent years and years searching tirelessly, tracking his father, tracing his beautiful Clary and finally bringing her home.

He wants to say he did it all for himself, to say that he only found Clary because he had need of her but if he digs down in himself, he knows that he found her in part because of Jocelyn’s grief, the look of utter wretchedness on her face when she found Clary’s crib over turned, glass broken and her child gone.  Her precious daughter had been stolen from her and despite Jonathan’s hatred of her, he couldn’t take the years of grief it took for the both of them to learn to hide it.  For they had both still mourned for Clary’s loss.  He had missed her more for his beloved playing companion, while Jocelyn only mourned.  Clary had turned into something more the longer he’d spent thinking about her, the more time he’d committed to getting her back.

But he had found her, he had tracked her down and he had brought her home.  He deserved his seclusion with her, uncaring of Jocelyn’s opinion of ‘defiling’ her daughter, her precious little eighteen year old daughter but Clary had been more than willing, he just had to wait.  And he loved her for it.  He’d never imagined what torture Valentine would put Clary through, never could have conceived that the devil man had beat his woman with a belt.  Hadn’t the old fool caused enough pain in his childhood, Valentine needed to ruin Clary’s as well?

He thrust into her particularly rough but Clary only screamed in pleasure, pulling away from his kiss to throw her head back, her nails scouring his back.  He felt the gut wrenching sob tear from Clary’s delicate throat before he heard it, rending from the bottom of her heart as his thrusts broke through the delicate wall Clary had built to hold back those memories. 

He slows, almost stopping, turning his thrusts into smooth, small strokes as he leans down to brush his lips over her forehead.  His tongue darts out at the corner of her eye, catching some of the salty liquid.  He lets her sob, wrapping his arms around her soft torso and holding her close, to comfort her.  He admires the softness of her skin, knowing that all her scars would have been removed; the scars that that monster marred her skin with.  He notices how small and fragile she is, wrapped in his strong arms.  She was this small when they were kids, always so delicate yet with the fiery heart of a dragon.  Always fierce but forever loving, he just had to learn how to get her to love him.

Her body shudders beneath his, convulsing painfully but he gathers her close to his body, stroking her hair and whispering calming nonsense in his language, her native language.  He supposes that she’ll need to relearn it.  His hands move down and cup her bottom, pressing her hips flush against his as her sobs fall into cries fall into whimpers until finally she’s panting and hiccupping against his chest.

“There’s no more need to cry, little Clary.  I have you, here, safe.  Breathe and feel your body against mine, feel how warm I am.  I’m your comfort, you’re safe now,” he whispers consolingly in her ear and is satisfied when she visibly relaxes, well, relaxes everywhere except where their bodies meet.

Jonathan begins to move again, slow, languid strokes to stoke the fire that had been building in both their bodies.  “You don’t need to tell me anymore, little one.  Just lose yourself in me, let the pain slip away.”

His hand slips between their moving bodies, Clary’s prone and motionless, letting him consume her.  She gasps a little as his fingers stroke and tease her, his body stroking into hers and he smiles into her neck, driving his little princess higher and higher, watching the beautiful blush, highlighted by the rising sun, creep up her petite body.  The fire within his own body is driving him nearly insane, begging him to go faster, drive himself into her so deep, she’ll be sore for a week but he resists.  In this moment, Clary needs gentleness and comfort as the years of brutality sweep over her and Jonathan wipes them away.

He remembers the day he decided finding Clary because he was lonely was not the only reason.  He remembers the erotic fantasies he started thinking up, with little Clary as his prey.  It was an utter shock to him but the more he thought about it, the more he knew that was what he wanted.  He wanted to have his childhood friend to himself, wanted the beautiful woman she grew up to be for himself exclusively.  And he knows he made the right decision, having her small, beautiful body lying beneath him as he makes her writhe in pleasure drives him almost to his edge and with one last stroke, one last leisurely kiss to her full, swollen lips, he falls.

He buried himself deep, as well as his nose in her thick mane of fiery hair.  Breathing her in, he feels himself release as Clary clenches around him in orgasm.  Her tight, hot sheath slides against his erection, still hard and aroused, and he moans, nipping at his little princess’s neck.  He growls in satisfaction at the shiver that runs down her spine.  Reluctantly, he withdraws from her, letting her body fall back onto the couch, having unconsciously lifted, perfect back arched into him.

She falls back down on the thick cushions of the couch, the black bear skin blanket falling around them against the cold winter air penetrating the castle.  Her eyelids flutter shut, completely and utterly emotionally drained, as well as physically thanks to him.  He leans down and brushes a kiss over her forehead, her lips.

“Go back to sleep pélara,” he whispers, knowing how exhausted she is.  Over the past few days a rock solid resolve had been building, creating the need to protect Clary from any and everything.  Right now he wants her to rest, to not over exert herself as the news of her true identity was sure to have done.  She sighs, sinking into the couch and in a moment her breathing evens out, her aristocratic features relaxing.

He kisses her cheek once more before sliding out from under the blanket, resettling the heavy cover over his princess’s naked body.  Being naked himself, he pulls on a pair of boxers and after some deliberation, a simple black suit, planning on going to talk to the queen about Clary.  He walks back out, his shoes hanging around his neck, socks already on his feet, and finds that little Clary has pulled the blanket over her head.  His dogs have also moved in closer, curling round her small, covered form.  Jonathan trained them well.

He’d gotten the pups specifically with the intention of protecting Clary in mind, and he’d trained them well, Sterling and Silver recognizing their charge but always acknowledging him as the absolute master.  Sterling lifts his head, ears perked as he looks at the prince, curious as to what his master is doing.  Sterling had always been the most agile, unlike his sister, but when provoked, Silver had a worse temper and bite than her brother.

Jonathan whispered a command in his own language for the dogs to stay and protect his little princess while he went to have a morning chat with the female sovereign.  Quietly closing the door behind him, he put on his shoes, keeping them off so as not to wake Clary with the tapping on the tile.  He senses his guards falling in around him, all of them still edgy from his father’s attempt on Clary’s life.  He ignores them and walks to the intersection before the glass staircase and turns down the other hall, leading to the ruling monarchs’ rooms.  He’s not surprised by the two guards stationed at their door but he’s waved through, being the Heir. 

He finds the queen in her solar, reading a book in a flowing, dark blue morning gown, her black hair, much like her daughter’s, pristine and glossy ebony though at the moment his princess’s hair is just a tad mussed from being thoroughly made love to.  He smiles at the thought but quickly hides it as he seats himself across from his queen.  She looks up from her book, a reserved yet scrupulous look on her face.

“Jonathan,” she says sweetly, her voice flowing like water but he much rather prefers the sweet honey of Clary’s voice.  She sets the book down on the table between them.  “What can I do for you this morning?  I did not realize you even rose before eleven.”

Jonathan didn’t wince at the hidden strike in the queen’s words but certainly heard it.  Ever since Clary was taken, he thinks she’s developed a subconscious disliking of him, because it was his father who took her daughter.  And now even more so because he’d brought her daughter back and refused to share.  Well, he believed he deserved some time alone with Clary.  He smiles stalely.

“Your Majesty,” he says, not wanting to speak the queen’s name, feeling as though it might insult her.  “I’ve come to discuss a… sensitive matter with you, if I may ask for the privilege of privacy with you.”

He waits, watching the queen’s growing suspicion turn to realization and shock.  She quickly shoos the guards from her solar, having them close the doors.  He can tell she is eager to hear the news she assumes he is here to say.  In all honesty, she is right, but he is still deliberating whether or not he wants to share his princess yet, or ever.

“Please, Jonathan, go ahead,” the queen says eagerly, her regal posture laced with trepidation and excitement.

Jonathan laces his fingers together, patiently drawing out the inevitable.  Maybe he should just lie to the queen and not confirm her suspicions that Clary is her daughter.  Maybe he’ll just keep her to himself for a little while longer, and looking at Clary’s needs she might not be ready to handle the stress of being reintroduced into her family.  She’s barely coped with living here in the castle with him.

She’s already stressed enough with adjusting to castle life as well as being away from the monster that ruled her childhood.  She still has frequent nightmares and flashbacks; he wants to resolve that before having the queen ambush Clary about her kinship.  Even though Clary already is aware of her true heritage, she doesn’t need to be swamped with people, not to mention the multimedia attention this will draw.  And if it gets out into the public news that the lost Idrian princess has now been found, Valentine might come looking for Clary himself to try to reclaim whatever goal he was working towards in the first place.  Jonathan suspects he might already know because of the wraith—an international assassin—that was sent to kill Clary and the virus that had somehow been slipped into her food. 

Jonathan silently deliberates to himself, turning his gaze inward while the queen waits almost anxiously across the dark, small table from him.  Does he want to risk Clary’s exposure to the media, to the rest of the family?  If he tells the queen, he still has rights over Clary, he did buy her, but he tore up the contract.  The entirety of the Escort business disgusted him from the moment he found out about it; the capture and sale of Royals is unethical.  He glances over at the queen and sees her heart in her eyes, something she rarely ever lets show.  He sighs in exasperation, his decision made.

He can still protect Clary, keep her secluded and slowly introduce her to the family and Royal life a little at a time.  He’ll make sure to be gentle with her, to cloud her mind with happiness and pleasure when she’s on the brink of a panic attack, which she seems to be prone to.

“I came to discuss the matter of Clary, and confirm your suspicions that she is your daughter,” Jonathan says calmly, still working through what he’ll have to do to protect Clary, because he will protect Clary first and foremost.

He watches as the queen takes a deep breath, fighting to compose herself, fighting the anger at him building as well as the tears brimming her perfectly lined eyes.  He continues before the queen can speak.

“I found her about six years ago, held captive in the New York at the Night’s House, under Valentine’s jurisdiction.  I had to wait for her to become of age to be put up to auction so I could purchase her rights and take her away from Valentine.  The problem was, the bid was not open to the Fairchild Empire or Idris, so I had to pose as another Royal, spending a few of my favors with the other Heirs, but Clary is worth it.  I went to New York to bid at the auction and collect Clary.  I had an entourage of six guards escort her to the jet because I did not want Valentine to see me and risk recognizing me.  He would have taken Clary back had he done so.  I observed her on the plane ride to get a sense of who she was before I revealed myself.  I asked for her papers, which I already had a copy of but these contained her lineage.  Confirming that she was in fact Heir to the Fairchild Empire I tore up the contract saying that I owned your daughter.  Valentine will not be receiving the money.”

The queen gasps, a single tear trailing mascara down her perfect cheek.  “Oh, thank you Jonathan, I—“

Jonathan holds up a hand to stop her.  “But, you have to remember, her loyalties lie with me.  And I want your respect of my claim over her.  I searched for her; I spent years planning to rescue her; I rescued her and I brought her home.  I was the one to reintroduce her to palace life, I am the only one she trusts completely in this palace, and I have been the one taking care of her and assuaging the horrific nightmares my father made flesh for Clary.  She trusts in me and no disrespect to Your Majesty but I want you to acknowledge that she is mine and I will not relinquish my claim on her because you did not put forth the effort I did to rescue your own daughter.”

The queen looks as though she wants to scream at him, protest that she did search and she did but not as long and devotedly as he did.  She searched for years, missed her, then stopped, and mourned her.  Before she can get a word out he continues.

“Once the media finds out, I suspect my father will return to try and to carry out the plan he had originally set in motion by taking Clary in the first place.  He already sent a wraith and a bio-virus to try and assassinate Clary, which tells me that he no longer needs her alive.  And believe me when I say, I will do any and everything within my power to protect her, even of go against the orders of my king and queen and her parents.”

Jonathan leans back, gently lacing his fingers in his lap, waiting for the queen’s reaction.  He expects her to yell at him, punish him for his petulance but the queen only bows her head. 

“Of course I will respect your claim, Jonathan.  I am grateful you found her where my efforts were lacking.  I hope you can forgive me, but I will lay down some rules of my own.  She is my daughter, Heir to the Fairchild empire and if the king and I so choose, Heir to Idris, moving you to second in line to the throne should Lucian and I not have any more children.  Make sure to keep that in mind.  No, I’m not threatening you, I’ve taken you on as my own son despite your resistance to my efforts, only pointing this out should we want Clary to take over this country or something happens to you.”

Though the queen said otherwise, Jonathan can hear the small threat in her voice.  Even if she did raise him as her own son, it was his father who stole Clary and Jonathan who kept her daughter from her even longer.  A queen can only be pushed so far.  The queen continues, her face somewhere between gratitude and detestation.

“Clary is my flesh and blood and you would do well to remember that.  I acknowledge that I did not search as devotedly as you did and I thank you for finding her, honestly and I am sure the king thinks likewise in this matter but I birthed her.  I raised her until your sick father removed her from the palace.  I can have you deposed of your position as Heir if I so choose, so tread carefully.”  There it is, said aloud.  “I only demand that Lucian and I have access to Clary, to get to know her and reconnect with our lost daughter.  I’m aware that you have saved and cared for Clary, and I thank you for that, but she is still mine and Lucian’s daughter.  We are willing to overlook the fact that you purchased her under the pretense of Clary’s being an Escort and deflowering her under said pretense, if you do not keep her from the king and me.

“You are welcome to keep her housed in your rooms, as I suspect, from what I’ve gleaned, she needs the companionship, but if she wishes to have her own rooms, she will have her own rooms.  She is the princess Heir to the Fairchild Empire and she will be treated as such,” the queen finishes and he can see the unspoken accusation, even though she hinted at it, in her eyes.

You spoiled my daughter’s innocence before I even knew her.  But Jonathan doesn’t feel the least bit of remorse, or the least bit of fear.  He’d made sure that Clary trusted him more than anyone else here, and she didn’t trust the queen to begin with even if she was her own mother.  He suspects it is because of her childhood nightmare, years and years of believing her parents left her as an infant in an abandoned apartment complex.  That does not just go away because you’ve found your family, it’s a psychological fear planted so deeply and firmly in the back of the mind it takes just as many years, maybe more, to unravel.

“Of course, your Majesty but she’s asleep at the moment, she had a rough time last night and I would like her to continue resting,” he says, stopping the queen’s question as he saw it float to her lips.  “My only interest is in Clary’s mental and emotional health as well as her physical health.  In the former aspects she’s rather unstable.  My concern is that having your Majesty and His Majesty coming in after she’s only just been told she is the Heir to the Fairchild Empire would be rather, for lack of a better word, traumatic.  I would appreciate it if you and His Majesty held off on discussing this subject with her for a few days but you are more than welcome to speak and visit with her.  We will most likely be out in the town this afternoon to shop, you’re welcome to join us.”

He stands, dropping a shallow bow to the queen.  He can practically taste the tension lacing the air between the two of them but his last words have eased some of the pressure.  He only smiles at his queen, letting genuine happiness at the thought of Clary slipping into his mind.  “Good morning, your Majesty.”

With that he leaves, striding out of her solar, past the king, dressed in an immaculate suit, who was apparently standing outside the solar doors listening in.  His elegant face is splashed with shock.  Jonathan stops before him to bow, intending to stride away but a hand on his shoulder restrains him.

“Thank you, Jonathan, for bringing her back,” the king says before Jonathan cracks a cold smile and brushes the king’s hand off politely.

“You’re very welcome, your Majesty.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I would like to get back to Clary before she wakes.”

The king nods, stepping aside to allow Jonathan to pass, exiting through the grand double oak doors into the hallways where his guards linger with the two guarding the doors to the Royal chambers.  Jonathan slides past them, his own entourage falling into place as he walks the long distance between the king and queen’s wing towards his own.

He finds Clary still curled up on the couch, blanket still wrapped snuggly around her, dogs still tucked into her sides.  Though this time the top of her black curls peaks out from under the bear skin.  He smiles warmly, actual affection replacing the conjured thing from a few moments ago.  She’s so small and delicate compared to even the massive hunting hounds lying on either side of her.  He leaves his shoes at the door and pads over to her, sitting down on the edge of the couch, running his fingers through her thick mass of black hair.  The strands slip through his fingers like blazing silk, shimmering ebony in the rising sun.

She stirs slightly, letting out a little moan before turning over, her closed eyes facing him; her slightly parted lips an invitation for a kiss.  He leans down and brushes his lips across hers, coaxing a lavish response from the half conscious girl.  She lets out a sigh as he releases her, tucking the blanket up around her and standing.  He’ll make sure she sleeps at least a few more hours until he takes her into town to shop.  She’d said the other day she wanted to shop for something specific but she’d been embarrassed when he asked specifically what it was.

He passes the next few hours by having his page bring in some charters and princely documents to read over and sign at his desk in the corner of the room, with a clear view of Clary.  His mind begins to blur with boredom as the sun climbs higher and higher in the sky.  He’s pouring over a land grant when the flash of pale skin catches his eye.

He looks up, most likely looking bedraggled, his suit coat thrown over the back of his chair and his hair mussed from running his finger through it in exasperation but none of it matters when he sees Clary standing in front of his desk, completely naked.  His eyebrow goes up in appreciation as he slowly inspects Clary’s petite, pale body, inch by delicious inch.  Her eyes are barely open, squinting against the sun pouring through the one pair of drapes he left pulled back by his desk to read by.

“Good afternoon Clary,” he says, his eyes wandering between her breasts and apex of her legs.  He can practically feel the soothing warmth coming from her soft skin and his body begins to harden.

“Morning,” she mumbles, sidling around the desk, seemingly unaware of her nudeness.  He turns his chair to face Clary beside him.  He’s both greatly satisfied and partially shocked when she practically collapses into his lap, her hot core pressed against his thigh.  Her arms slide around his neck and he turns back to his paperwork.  Her hot breath caresses the side of his neck, completely innocent but enraging his body all the same.  “What are you doing?” she asks, her lips moving against his neck.

“Paperwork,” he says quietly, even as his arms snake around her small waist, pulling her closer to her.  His pen is completely disregarded along with his papers atop the desk.  His fingertips brush the side of her bare breast.  He can feel the goose flesh rising over her skin.  She shivers and snuggles closer to his body.  He slips his hand around her hips, his fingers sliding into the moist dark black curls between her legs.  She barely even registers the movement, only sinks onto his hand, perfectly at ease.  His body hardens, pressing against her thigh but again she doesn’t notice.

“That sounds boring,” she murmurs, moving her nose intentionally over his neck.  “Why don’t you find something better to do?”  Oh, now he knows she’s intentionally trying to arouse him, rubbing against him like a cat searching for a scratch, in a very specific place.  His fingers slide down to separate the soft folds of her body to touch her small bundle of nerve endings.  She gasps softly, turning her nose into his neck and slowly lifting her hips then setting them back down.

He feels the small smile on Clary’s lips against his neck.  He nearly groans as his cock hardens, his fingers reaching her damp core.  She’s already wet for him; he leans down and kisses the swell of her creamy breast.  He can feel the scorching heat on his hand as he slides two fingers into her.  She moans quietly, her lips pressing against his neck.  His thumb circles her sweet spot while his fingers massage inside of her.  A small groan escapes her lips as he strokes her.

He captures her lips, turning her out and away from his neck.  He kisses her roughly, his desire rising in intensity.  Her legs come up as she’s thrown backward, his arm around her back and hers around his neck her only balance.  She makes a little sound of protest but is soon kissing back, meeting his rising intensity.  Her tongue slides against his as his fingers slide in and out of her, her muscles clenching around his fingers.  He slides his tongue against her teeth, pushing against her roughly, barely restraining himself from laying her out on the desk… he pulls back with a frown, looking at Clary’s half-lidded, yet bright and aroused blue eyes.  Why the hell isn’t he laying her out on his desk and screwing them both into oblivion?

What a stupid idiot.  He leans forward and swipes an arm across his desk, clearing it of everything before he surges up, stretching his little princess out on his desk, his fingers still inside her.  Clary mewls softly, pressing her hips against his hand, desperate for relief.  He trails his mouth down her throat, between her breasts.  He moves to her nipple, drawing it between his teeth to suckle and nip at.  Clary, still being very tired, is slow and languorous, her reactions quiet and sexy and he draws her farther into his mouth.  Her fingers tangle in his hair and he revels in the tugging sensation.  He curls his fingers inside her, causing her to gasp.  He laughs low, against her breast, making a soft sigh escape her lips as he withdraws his fingers from her.

She whimpers, her sounds, quiet and alluring in the silence of the room.  His hand slides down to his trousers, quickly undoing the zipper and button.  He hasn’t worn underwear very often since he rescued Clary and today is a good day to have not to.  His erection springs free, brushing against Clary’s feminine, very wet, heat.  She lets out a soft cry, pleading with him and he can’t help but be aroused by the total submissiveness of his little spitfire.  She’s usually so spirited, nervous, heatedly passionate but this softer, submissive side of her turns him on just as much.  She’s yielding herself completely to his body, no shame, no nervousness, no shyness, complete and utter submission.

He can’t help but groan at the thought, slipping his hands between her legs and parting her silky thighs to reveal the lush treasure hidden between them.  The eroticism of the moment, him completely clothed save the open zipper and her completely naked, bared and stretched out before him on his desk, doesn’t escape him.  Leaning down, he presses a hot kiss to the spot just above her damp curls, on her pelvis, making her mewl, and slowly kisses a path up from her curls, over her stomach, between her breasts until finally he reaches her mouth, claiming it for his own.  He slides into her tight, hot sheath and her muscles immediately clench around him, making him groan into her mouth.

Clary’s beautiful, wanton moans permeate the air as he begins, slow, luxurious strokes into her body.  Her arms draped around the back of his neck, she lies utterly still beneath him, allowing him to completely dominate her body, allowing him to do anything he wants to her.  In this moment, she’s letting him have total, absolute control.  He suspects it’s because she’s still so tired, physically and emotionally, that she wants someone to drown her in sensation and blind her to the turmoil she’ll eventually deal with later and he is all too willing to oblige.  Such a fool for her.

His hands run up her thighs, parting them further, hooking her knees over his arms to allow him to penetrate deeper, loving each and every second of her submission.  He begins to heighten the pace, driving harder, faster and deeper until little Clary is mewling like a kitten beneath him, practically begging him without words to go faster.  Sensations wash over his skin as her body takes in his, surrounding it with heat and silk.  His palms, braced flat on the desk, slide up to cup her buttocks, lifting her hips higher, supporting her on the edge of the desk.  He can hear the brush of fabric against her silken skin.

He pulls his lips back, giving her a chance to breathe, as he nuzzles her neck, gently suckling on the spot between her shoulder and throat.  When he moves away a dark blue splotch blossoms in the place of his mouth.  He smiles, satisfied that he’s left his mark on her, before moving down to lavish her breast.  He sucks and nips at her nipple, drawing and tugging until it’s a hard peak beneath his tongue.  He licks and sucks until she’s pushing her chest into his mouth, breathing harshly.  He moves to her other, woefully neglected breast, his hips still thrusting into her at a steady rhythm.  He bestows attention to her other breast, causing it to become hard and erect, giving it a few tentative licks before pulling away.

His hands slide up to grasp her hips, once again parting her legs further as her knees catch on his arms.  She’s throwing her head back and forth, moaning and mewling, keening and whimpering as Jonathan continually changes his pace just to torture her.  He turns his head to her thigh, licking and nipping until he can feel her inner thigh muscles clenching, just as her most feminine muscles clench around him as she’s thrown into an orgasm, her body shattering with pleasure.

He feels his own release inside her, tightening his muscles, digging his fingers into her hips.  She cries out, high and clear before her body falls back down to the desk.  He watches with satisfaction, breathing raggedly, with his chin on her stomach, her breasts heaving up and down, her nipples taut peaks.  He drags his tongue from her belly button to chin, spreading a shiver through her body and he watches it raise goose flesh.  He slowly withdraws from her panting, shivering body, dragging her off the desk to stand her in front of him.

He can see her legs shaking with weakness, her hooded eyes sleepy and altogether too sexy.  That little submissive glint still hangs in her eyes, asking him to take her all over again but he wants to get down to the shops before too long.  His eyes flick down the junction between her legs, and smiles at the sight of his seed running down her thigh.  His mark, his possession, his little flowery princess.

Her mass of silky fiery curls covers half her face, making her look wild and untamed as he scoops her up and carries her to the bathroom.  She buries her nose in his shoulder, arms looping around his neck, as he opens the bathroom door and gently sets her down before the shower.  He can see marks on her breasts from where he’d bitten and sucked, dark fingerprints smudging her body as she sways slightly on her feet.

He reaches around her and presses a button on one of the glass panels in the bathroom, turning on the shower.  Steam immediately fills the room, cloaking him and Clary.  He quickly undresses, throwing his dress shirt and trousers haphazardly on the vanity counter before slipping an arm around Clary’s waist and helping her into the shower.  She leans back against him in the hot stream of water, her head resting on his shoulder, buttocks firmly pressed against his hips.  His hands run possessively over her small body, feeling and memorizing every single curve and hollow.

“You’re still very tired Clary,” he whispers, leaning down to brush his lips beneath her ear.  She shivers in response.  “Would you like to go back to sleep after your shower?”

She shakes her head, very slowly from side to side, making her soaked, silky hair glide over his chest.  “No, I want to go shopping,” she says, her voice gaining some clarity.  “Now wash me, princeling,” she commands, her fingers trailing over his hips.

He smirks, face still buried in her neck, inhaling their mixed scents as well as the pungent scent of their lovemaking.  “As you wish, your Highness,” he says softly before grabbing a soap bottle and pouring it over her body.  He uses his strong, skilled hands to deftly scrub at her soft body, paying special attention to the junction of her legs; he’s very satisfied when she moans quietly.  He gently massages her inner thigh muscles, knowing they’ll be sore in the next few hours before rinsing her off and rubbing conditioner into her fiery locks.

When he washes the conditioner out after washing himself; he finds her hair silky smooth and untangled.   He buries his fingers in the soft mass, tugging her head back to rest on his shoulder before he dips his head down and kisses her neck. He swears he could stay like this forever, skin to skin with his little princess but he needs to get to the shops before they close. Clary wanted to go shop desperately but for what he still has yet to discover.

 

He sweeps her out of the large stone and glass stall, pressing the glass panel to shut off the shower before grabbing a soft maroon towel and drying every inch of Clary's beautiful little body. She closes her eyes and hangs her head back, evidently savoring the feel of his hands on her but he can't help but notice, the longer she's awake, the more and more her submissive side is fading, being replaced with shyness and doubt. He can see her instinctively wrap her arms around her chest as though to protect herself whereas before she'd been open and giving to him.

He frowns at her, though she can't see him, wondering why she would still retreat from him. It's possible she's still in shock from the revelation of her true identity, she probably still is. She's probably doubting herself and who she is, how she'll hold herself and knowing her, she's probably thinking she's not good enough to be a Royal. She'd demonstrated many times before that she thought she was below him, and not to mention she is still scarred from her time in the foster care system and from Valentine's abuse.

He sighs at Clary's insecurity, eventually she'll come to be comfortable with him but for now, he'll just work on coaxing her out. She's already made progress with her little half-conscious submission just a few minutes ago. He's patient, he'll wait. He gently wraps the towel around her small frame, tucking the edge in so it doesn't fall.

"Why don't you go get dressed then we can go shopping for your mystery item?" he says, pressing a kiss to the girl's forehead before grabbing his own towel and wrapping it around his waist. Clary's eyes are open now, vibrant, brilliant blue that makes his breath catch in his throat. She bites her lip, confirming she's now nervous and self-conscious before she nods, disappearing out into the hall towards his bedroom to go dress.

He stands for a moment in the bathroom, contemplating what he's going to do with his little princess. She needs to be taken care of, looked after even if she doesn't want it, defying him by saying that she'd taken care of herself perfectly fine for fifteen years but she needs to be nurtured. Someone with as many mental and emotional scars as Clary needs to be looked after, be comforted. And he'll be the one to heal her.

It took only a few minutes to get down into town, using one of the large black SUVs that belong to the Royal family. Now he and Clary stroll up the sidewalk, window shopping for the moment, his fingers firmly laced with Clary's. Their guard entourage trails in front of and behind them, keeping an eye out for danger as they stride through the city streets, earning many shocked glances and friendly waves from the citizens. Certainly lots of photos. It concerns Jonathan slightly that pictures are being taken but pictures of Clary are bound to get out someday.

He'd told the queen that they were going out to town and she'd sent back that she would join them for coffee around four or five in the best coffee house in the city, Java Jones. Jonathan now has his arm firmly secured around Clary's waist, keeping her sheltered under his shoulder as she flits from window to window, looking for something specific.

Finally after half an hour of searching, two stops in men's clothing stores for Clary to pick out ties for him, they finally some to the store Clary was searching for. She smiles widely at him, slipping out of his grasp before rushing into the store, her long dress a flurry of dark blue material beneath her stark white long coat. Three of the guards split off to follow her in while Jonathan looks at the name of the store.

 

_Whitewillow Fine Arts_

 

Jonathan looks at the sign, a small smile tugging at his lips. His little princess has an artistic side. In Valentine's presence it was no doubt repressed for many years. Jonathan wonders absently what Clary has such a clear passion for. He walks into the store, leisurely taking his time, looking around at the rows of pristine musical instruments, strings, music books and maintenance supplies for said instruments taking up one corner of the store. Another corner is occupied by fake flowers, yarn, needles, glue, construction paper and all things to do with sewing or diorama construction. Another corner filled with cameras, frames, and large sets of photo paper indicate photography but the most impressive part of the store is the art section. Rows and rows of paints line the walls, shelves hold an array of different sizes and types of canvas. Black, blue, white and red canvases make for a colorfully decorated wall. Brushes, pens, pencils, sketchbooks and art tools take up the opposite wall, with multiple aisles dedicated to colored paints and canvases along with easels which is where, after a few minutes of searching, he finds Clary, looking out of breath and much like a kid in a candy store with her arms full of paints, brushes and sketchbooks.

She smiles distractedly at him when she sees him but she is clearly more focused on the surrounding art supplies. He can see faint smiles on her guards' faces as they follow her as she darts around with a basket, filling it with paints, pencils, blending tools, paint knives, canvases and sketchbooks. He finally catches her around the waist, pulling her back against him when he finds her admiring the example art hanging on the walls. She doesn't seem to notice him, her mind clearly working on a new art piece but her eyes are sad, lost.

"I see you're artistic," he murmurs against her skin. "I didn't know this."

"I never really got to do it as a child, but I loved it when I'd managed to sneak some pencils and paper," she says but her voice is quiet, sad, cutting off towards the end. "Valentine confiscated my sketchbook when I was younger. The first year he had me, I filled about three sketchbooks with just sketches, drawings of things that don't exist, it was the only real time I got to indulge myself. After that…"

She hangs her head, hiding her eyes in the fall of her black hair. He can feel the quiet shudders through her body as she tries to hold back her tears. He slowly turns her, bringing her into the shelter of his arms. She wraps her arms his waist, burying her face in his chest. He doesn't say anything, letting Clary work through her own demons, letting her feel his comforting arms surrounding her as he looks at the paintings on the wall.

Eventually, she looks up at him, her beautiful eyes glistening but clear. She gives him a small smile, clearly wanting to distract herself as she sweeps out of his arms and takes her baskets up before browsing through the aisles again. He trails behind her, watching her pick out all the different colors and odd looking brushes before she turns to smiles shyly at him.

"Am I allowed to get all this?" she asks, and that hint of nervousness is back, like she knows she's stepped over a line, which she hasn't. "I'm supposed to be dependent on you as an Escort but since I'm not, I don't know what to do."

He smiles at her. "Of course you're allowed to get it, Clary. You're mine, and I take care of what's mine, including wants. So if you're ready, we can go purchase all this and have it sent to the castle before going to meet the queen for coffee."

She bites her lip, hanging her head and hiding her face for a moment, clearly struggling with the new freedom of being Royalty but eventually shyly walks up to him. He takes her to the front desk where all her art supplies are laid out on the counter before the blond clerk. Her eyes widen at the extensive amount of merchandise but once she sees it's her prince purchasing she quickly rings it all up. Jonathan tells the clerk, apparently the owner of this store, to have it sent to the castle.

With that he sweeps Clary out into the lightly falling snow that has begun to fall in soft flakes. Little white pecks fall in Clary's hair and she looks up, wonder and awe in her eyes as she takes in Idris's first snow. It occurs to him, because she lived in the polluted city of New York, that this is her first ever snow. He smiles at the pure childish curiosity as the snow begins to build up in banks on the sides of the sidewalk and street, the heated pathways keeping them clear to walk through. She even giggles quietly as she catches some snow in her gloves as the flakes become thicker and heavier.

He can't help it anymore, he stops in the middle of the sidewalk, grabs her waist and pulls her into a heated kiss that melts the snow right out of her hair. She makes a small noise of surprise but soon melts into the kiss. She tastes like the cool snow and pure, clean Clary. He squeezes her to him, lifting her off her booted feet. She smiles against his lips as his tongue slides into her mouth, she welcomes him, arms sliding around his neck.

He pulls back to find Clary's beautiful face flushed strawberry red and her hair covered in thick, fat snowflakes. He smiles wickedly at the shocked look on her face before kissing her cold nose.

"Let's go get you warmed up," is all he says before tugging her down the street.


	9. Deposed Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Everyone I’ve loved gets taken away and hurt.”
> 
> “I can guarantee that I will never be taken away, little flower.”
> 
> “No you can’t.”

Sitting in the coffee shop, beside her princeling, facing the queen, her mother, Clary feels as though she might choke from nerves.  Her knuckles are white, clamped around Jonathan’s own hand under the small, wood table in the coffee shop.  They’d just finished ordering: one black coffee for her, one black for the queen and a coffee with milk for the prince.  Clary can feel her throat beginning to close as she subconsciously leans into Jonathan, savoring his warmth.

The queen is quiet, watching Clary like a cat, her intelligent blue eyes reflecting back the same cunning, if not duller; Clary’s were sharpened by years on the street and in slavery.  The coffee comes and Clary eagerly grabs the cup to occupy her mouth and for something to look at instead of the eerie similarity flashing in the queen’s eyes.  The coffee warms her insides, releasing some of her tension.  With her fingers wrapped around the cup, it leaves Jonathan’s unoccupied, so he picks up his coffee in one and winds his other, surprisingly warm hand around her waist and under her sweater, running it over her hip.

After a moment of sitting in tangible tension, the queen speaks up tenaciously. 

“Clary,” she says, setting down her coffee on the polished table.  “I don’t know what to say.  I—I can’t believe you’re alive, that you’re here.”

Clary continues to stare at the coffee, not daring to meet her gaze.  “I was alive,” Clary says, then quieter, so only Jonathan can hear, “suffering for eighteen years.”  Jonathan’s fingers rub sympathetically over her hip, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

“Well, tell me about yourself.  What do you like to do?  Are you interested in academics, politics?”

Clary looks slowly up at her mother, her gaze free of conviction or anger, but swamped with silent anguish.  “I apologize for my lack of answers but I was a prisoner and slave most of my life.  I didn’t have many opportunities to develop my interests.  And seeing as I was forced into a slave market subject to the Royals, and had my few friends sold off to abusive Royals who saw themselves as superior, I have a strong affliction to politics or anything associated with them,” Clary says, her voice soft and quiet.  As soon as she finishes speaking, she returns her gaze to her coffee.

“Clary,” the queen breathes, “I didn’t realize how insensitive I was being.  I can’t imagine how horrific your childhood was and I cannot make up for any of your loss but I would like to start out our relationship on a good note.”

“Forgive me, but I’m still assimilating the information that I’m your daughter,” Clary says, deliberately avoiding the use of the word Princess or Royal.  She still can’t accept that she’d been kidnapped from what should have been a luxurious life and left in misery and enslavement.  Pardon her if she’s a bit bitter.

With those last quiet words, she brings the coffee to her lips and settles against Jonathan, gratefully slipping into the shelter of his shoulder.  She is resolved not to speak for the rest of the morning.  The prince takes up the conversation with ease, speaking of anything but her and her life in New York.  After her coffee, she leans her head upon Jonathan’s shoulder, listening to the sweet, if not stiff, conversation between the ruling sovereign and Heir.

Clary nearly went to sleep there in the coffee shop if it wasn’t for the abrupt interruption from both the queen’s and the Heir’s security guards.  One of Jonathan’s, a big, well-muscled man with cropped brown hair, leans down beside the prince and whispers something, just as the queen’s guard does the same with her.

Jonathan, after the guards back away and fall in around the royals, leans close to Clary’s ear, his voice low and smooth, despite the disturbing news.  “We need to leave now, little one.  Valentine has been spotted within the country borders with a team of wraiths.”

Clary’s breath leaves her in a rush, all her nightmares rushing back, all the beatings and all the fears.  She’s disobeyed so many Escort rules.  What will Valentine do to her?  He knows, he knows she disobeyed, broke code.  He is going to hurt her, punish her again.  That’s why he’s here, he came back to punish her.

Clary’s mind essentially shuts down then, going into auto pilot, relying on instincts.  She stands up, pushing away from the table, her mind a blur, as she races out of the coffee shop and down the sidewalk, not even paying attention to where she’s going, just knowing she needs to hide, to get away again.  Everything blurs past her, the white of the snow, the quiet murmur of people as she flies past.  She hears a shout, a growl as she barrels round a corner.

She doesn’t want to stop, she has to keep running, she has to get away from Valentine, he’d come back for her.  He knows, he knows, he knows.  She nearly screams as the nightmares rise up and swallow her, blinding her to the world.  She skids to a halt, unaware she is being run down by the prince.

Strong arms envelop her and she screams that time, pulling harshly to get away from the harsh grip.  Everything is hazy and red with fear, images of pain and blood blocking out her vision.  Someone is yelling at her, trying to calm her but she can’t, can’t get past the horror of her past, the looming threat of Valentine coming back.

Someone spins her around and presses their lips to hers, blocking out her air as they take command of her body.  She is still trembling, lost in darkness and the red around her vision begins to fade along with the red, along with her consciousness as the hot, relentless lips steal her breath until she falls limp in their arms.

 

Jonathan holds his princess in his arms as he walks back to the car the guards had brought for the queen and him.  He cradles Clary close, her tear streaked face nearly wrenching his heart out as he settles beside Jocelyn in the car.  He presses his nose into her neck, breathing out a great sigh.  His poor Clary.  Back in the coffee shop, he’d seen all the color drain from her face when he’d said his father’s name.

She’d bolted from the shop and given him a run for his money past six blocks and covering about two miles.  He’d snapped at the guards to stay back, knowing that they would have made it worse.  The queen’s voice pulls him from his reverie and what he was going to do once Clary woke up.

“Is she alright?”

He lays Clary down on the seat beside him, stretching her out and laying her head in his lap before turning to the queen.

“No, she’s not,” he snaps, agitated by her mere presence.  He sighs, forcing his anger down, knowing he shouldn’t be speaking to his sovereign with such disrespect.  “Your Majesty will forgive me, I’m concerned for Clary.  She’s suffered many nightmares in New York that I wish I could have spared her from.”

“What nightmares?” the queen demands, suddenly drawing herself up, the protective mother coming out altogether.

“She’s only told me a small amount of her time there but from what she has told me, whippings, beatings, submission.”  He turns away from Jocelyn before the rising snarl can escape.  He swears that if Valentine dares to show his face and come after Clary, he will personally flay the man and hang him by his ankles in the dungeons to slowly bleed to death.  Damn the Laws and damn human morals.  Valentine isn’t going to lay a hand on Clary ever again.

Jonathan is silent the rest of the drive, hovering over Clary’s unconscious form the entire way, hoping she doesn’t wake up, at least not yet.  Jonathan drives the guards off when they try to offer assistance to carry the princess back to their suite and picks her up by himself, carrying her through the castle to their suite.

In his bedroom, he lays her out along the lush bed, propping her head on one of the pillows.  He sits beside her on the bed, brushing black curls from her cheek.  He slowly undoes her thick leather, winter boots, sliding off her socks before peeling off her wool leggings.  He smirks to himself, taking joy in the dark lack of her silken panties beneath her long, white winter coat that he unbuttons carefully.  He meticulously removes her many thick, top layers, down to her matching silk bra.  He strips her of that as well before tucking the multitudes of blankets and comforters around her, her fiery hair splayed on the pillow.

Still sitting on the bed, he leans over to the glass panel in the wall and taps it, causing the mattress to heat, keeping his little princess warm while he leaves her to check on what is going on.  He shuts the door quietly, making sure the lights are off before proceeding over to the king and queen’s suite, where they will surely be convening on how the crown should handle Valentine’s reappearance.

He feels a black hatred building in his chest.  His father.  After all these years, he’s finally returned just to torment him, to torment Clary.  He hates Valentine for taking Clary away, hates him, despite all of his denial, for causing Jocelyn and Lucian pain.  He makes sure that guards are posted both inside his suite and outside, sure that his father will go after Clary just as he had done when she was a child.  Two of his own guards behind him, his makes his way over to the queen and king’s rooms.

They are already in session as he slips inside quietly, taking his empty seat on the other side of the king, opposite the queen where the Heir is always placed.  Foreign dignitaries are present, voicing their concerns on what the return of the old king will do, to both their country and Idris.  The queen is absolutely silent, withdrawn and turned in on herself.  He recognizes the brooding, moody look on her face, mixed with anger and pain and sorrow.  And fear.

Every anger in him responds to the fear in his stepmother’s eyes.  His stepmother whom he’s never addressed as such through all his years because of his contempt for her allowing his father to sneak into Clary’s nursery to kidnap her.  His contempt for her giving up the search for her own daughter after only a few years.  How dare his father step foot anywhere near his ex-wife’s empire after the pain and torment he caused?  How dare he come back after kidnapping Jonathan’s childhood friend, his princess, his beloved, Jocelyn’s daughter and threaten her.

Lucian stands, drawing everyone’s attention and respect, silencing everyone.  His usually handsome is etched with strain and worry. He wonders why he hasn’t been to see Clary yet.

“Valentine will be dealt with swiftly and before he can amass any sort of support to him.  This is not something to worry yourself over but we will have increased security for the safety of not only the Royal family but our court and honored guests.  Please, return to your day and we will have an update for you by this evening,” the king dismisses them all with finality.  Jonathan, out of the corner of his eye sees his distant uncle of some sort, Samuel, walking out with the dark haired boy that was rescued with IsaIzzy, the one who practically assaulted him.  Will is walking behind IsaIzzy who is beside Simon.

Lucian falls back in his chair, Jonathan still silent and seething beside him, his queen still frozen in silent horror.  Lucian turns towards his Heir.

“Jonathan—“ he began but Jonathan cut him off with a sharp look that should have gotten him punished, but in this tense time, Lucian lets it slide, aware of how much this is affecting his stepson.

“I’m not letting my no good father anywhere near Clary.  If he shows his vile face I’m going to run him through and throw him in the dungeons to rot,” Jonathan says vehemently, a sharp snarl in his voice.

“Where is she now?” the queen’s small voice filters across the table, washing over him like cold ice water.

“Resting in bed with six guards posted, she’ll be waking any moment,” he says, standing from the table.  “If you’ll excuse me your Majesties, I’d like to be present when she wakes.”  He bows low to each of them, keeping his expression neutral, affording the sovereigns some respect.  With that he leaves, not even looking back, desperate to be with his princess.

His suite is dark, the curtains closed but he knows the guards are on the balcony, at the door, in the kitchen.  He is tired all of a sudden, he wants to just collapse, not face his father if at all possible but he knows he’ll have to.  Even if he isn’t after Jonathan, he would come after Clary and he sure as hell isn’t leaving her side.  She’s finally achieved some peace, some semblance of stability and love and Valentine had to step back in to ruin it.

He schlepps to his room, where Clary is still sleeping quietly, if not peacefully.  He peels off his layers of coats down to his sweater.  He pulls off his boots before peeling off his pants and long underwear.  He strips naked, slipping beneath the covers beside Clary.  Her body is soft, pliant and warm, welcoming.  His body brushes against the offensive silk of her underwear that he’d left her with but right now, he just needs to feel her, skin to skin.

He hooks two fingers in the band of her underwear, slowly peeling them down her legs.  She stretches languidly, tiredly, and rolls over, burrowing in his chest.  He wraps his leg around hers, drawing her closer beneath the warm blankets, his hand splaying over the small of her back.  She groans, burying herself in his warmth.  A slow fire starts building throughout his body, pooling lower, where her wet heat is pressed against him.

He sighs and presses his face into her warm neck, pressing soft kisses along her skin.  He is caught between waking her up to sate his growing hunger and letting her sleep.  He presses up against her, like a great jungle cat, his mouth brushing over her skin, laving her beautiful skin.  He wants to lose himself in her so badly it is becoming an aching need.  Her hands tighten into fists against his chest and he doesn’t have to decide as she slowly wakes.  He hears her heartbeat race for a moment, her breath stopping but he senses it isn’t from his sensual arousal pressing against her.  It is the fear of Valentine, still present in her mind from when he put her to sleep.

“Hush, little one,” he whispers in her ear, nuzzling the heating skin of her neck.  “You’re safe, with me, with your prince.  You’re safe, no one can touch you but me,” he whispers soothingly.  His large hands rub over her sides, letting her wrap her arms around him.  She’s awake now, just refusing to acknowledge it.  A slight tremble starts in her toes, moving up to her legs and torso before finally it’s engulfed her entire body.

“He’s going to punish me,” she says, her voice a thread of pathetic sound.  “I broke so many rules.  I broke protocol.  He’s going to take me back.  You’re going to give me back.”  She is mumbling nonsense to herself.  Jonathan won’t stand for her to hide.  He takes her chin and forces her eyes up to his.  But she refuses to look at him.

“Look at me,” he says quietly.  She immediately complies.  He scowls.

“Did I displease you?” Clary asks and he knows she’s thinking he’s finished with her.  He doesn’t know what Valentine did to her to make her like this.  So fiercely submissive when even mention of Valentine comes up.

“No,” he snaps.  “Listen to me, Clary.  You could never displease me.  I’m never giving you back because you never belonged to him in the first place.  I love you, little flower.  Don’t you love me?”

Her gaze drops from his and her forehead falls against his chest.  Her arms tighten around his torso with surprising strength as she shudders.  “I broke the rules!” she sobs, becoming breathless as his chest becomes wet.  “I broke so many rules,” she cries.  “I broke my own rules,” she whimpers, pressing her face into the crook of his neck.

She holds onto him desperately, like a woman over the edge of a cliff, hanging on by her fingertips.  And it’s enough for him to know that she at least trusts him enough to depend on him, seek him out for comfort in times of need.  He brushes her hair back, revealing her wet cheek.  Jonathan leans down to kiss away a tear.

“What do you mean, Clary?” he whispers.  “What are your rules?”

“I’m not supposed to trust anyone,” she murmured in a wretched voice, wrapping a leg around his hip so she can draw herself closer to the shelter of his body.  He winds his own arms tighter around her waist.  “Every ti—” She hiccupped and when she tried to continue, she only broke down in sobs.

“Shh,” he soothed, pressing his lips against her temple.  “Take your time, flower.  You’re safe with me.”

A moment of shuddering sobs, and Clary manages to draw enough breath to continue.  “Every time I let myself trust someone, every time I love them, something bad happens to them.  I—there was… was this one man…” Clary pauses.  “I—I can’t remember his name, his face, but I know he was the first person I trusted.  Something…” she shakes her head.  “Something bad happened to him.  And a few months later, another man with red hair…”

She groans.  “My head hurts,” she murmurs and burrows back against him.

He runs his fingers through her hair soothingly, knowing that she must be going through an immense amount of psychological pain.

“Every one I’ve loved gets taken away and hurt,” she whispers and runs her fingers over his shoulder blades, as though tracing the lines of his body help calm her.

“I can guarantee that I will never be taken away, little flower,” Jonathan says with another kiss to her temple.

“No you can’t,” she says and her voice is desolate, defeated, broken.  And it breaks his heart to hear it.

He sighs.  “How about I make you a deal?”

“Better than a promise,” she mumbles.

“How so?”

“You’re obligated to fulfill your end of the deal.”

Jonathan chuckles lowly, nuzzling his nose against her hair.  “Alright, here’s my deal: I’ll make sure you stay here with me if you trust me and let me help you forget Night’s House.”

Clary seems to take a moment, processing and in the meantime draws her fingers over his back mindlessly.  He shivers.  “Deal,” she says after a long time.

“Deal,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.  He can’t help the small smile crossing his lips.  A step in the right direction.  Close to an hour passes in silence, and Jonathan hates that the longer they’re quiet, the more he can feel her memories building up to knock her down.  But each time she shivers with the memory, she doesn’t pull back; she tugs herself closer to him.  He continues twirling her hair around his fingers, content to be a steady support for his princess as well as a willing listener.  Another hour or so passes, leading them into evening and she shows no sign of wanting to move, as though the dark of the room and his warm arms are enough to protect her from Valentine.

He can only dream.

A soft knock on his door causes Clary to jump and tense, her eyes widening and she practically disappears beneath the covers.  Jonathan calling for the guard outside to wait, he slides beneath the covers with her until they cover his head.

“Clary,” he whispers, seeking out her trembling hand in the blackness of between the sheets.  “Why would Valentine knock on my door if he were here?”

He feels the mattress shift as she shakes her head.  “I—I don’t know why he does things,” she stammered, shaking.  He sighs.

“If he were in this apartment, don’t you think there would have been some noise as he took down six, highly trained security guards?  And Valentine wouldn’t knock on a door he thought you would be in and announce his presence, little flower.  It’s just a security guard.  I swear on my life.”

He feels her nod shakily but she doesn’t emerge from the covers with him, just keeps a death grip on his hand beneath them.

“Come in,” Jonathan calls, squeezing Clary’s hand reassuringly.  As the guard enters, he resists a scowl.  “Pangborn,” he says, for Clary’s benefit.  Pangborn remains in the doorway.  “What is it?”

“It’s—” He clears his throat.  “It’s about Valentine, your highness.”

Jonathan is the only one able to hear Clary’s squeak, feel her trembling worsen and her grip tighten enough that it threatens to break his fingers, but he doesn’t let go.  Jonathan leans forward.  “Come here and tell me, quietly.  The princess is sleeping.”

Pangborn obeys and leans down to whisper in Jonathan’s ear.  “He’s been spotted in the city, his wraiths nowhere to be seen.  The captain has sent out patrols to search the city and doubled the guard at the castle.”

Jonathan nods and waves the guard away.  He slides back beneath the covers to gather Clary to him and tug her out from the sheets.  She squeaks, clinging to him even as he brushes his lips over her ear.  “He’s not here in the castle, Clary.  You’re still safe.”

Happiness threads his body as she takes him at his word and relaxes against him.  She must be too exhausted to do anything else.  He’s startled when she speaks softly.

“He used to read to me.”

Jonathan’s eyes widen.  “What?”

“It wasn’t for very long.  The first couple days I was there.  He would come in to find me trying to break out.  He tricked me.  He didn’t get mad then, only laughed and tucked me in like a father is supposed to and read me a story.  It’d be a different book every night.”

She doesn’t look at him and Jonathan is utterly shocked that a man like his father is capable of acting like, well, like a father.  He keeps silent, wanting Clary to keep talking.  She’s never really divulged what her childhood was like, at least Night’s House.

His heart tightens as he realizes she’s holding back tears again.  “But then,” she says in a choked voice.  “After a week, he started training me.”  She strangled a sob, her body shaking violently.  “I didn’t realize where he was taking me that morning until I was strapped to a table, naked.”

Her tears are hot and wet against his chest, were the ghosts of her other tears roam, still salty.  “I’ve broken so many rules,” she says wretchedly.  “I’m going to have to do it all over again.”

“No, little flower, no, no,” Jonathan coos, shifting her to face him.  “You will never go through that again.  Ever.  Do you understand?”  Clary shakes her head, face in her palms.

“No,” she cries.  “It doesn’t matter, he’s going to do it all over again.  I’m going to go through it all over again.  It doesn’t matter what you do.  I shouldn’t love you!  I’ve lied to you and told you too many truths.  I haven’t been following protocol.  I haven’t been submitting.  I let you take my chip out early.  I didn’t let you have me the first night.  I’ve disobeyed you.”  She sobs harder.  “He’s going to throw me back in with the Doms!  He’s going to beat me!  The Correction Rooms!  I have so many scars now!” she screams, lost in a world of horror and pain and he is glad the lights are off, not only to hide all of the false faults she’s pointing out from her, but if he saw her in the full light, how wretched and terrified she looks…  He would break.

Then he would hunt his father down and skin him alive, leave him alive and out for the crows to peck at.

“Clary,” he says, softly at first then harsher.  “Clary, look at me.  Right now.”  He hates using her training against her, using his own political and social training to force her attention to him.  But from the dim lights he’s left on, he sees her blue eyes, surrounded by puffy, red skin, look up at him.  When he takes her shoulders, she visibly flinches from him.

“Now you listen to me, Clary Adele Fairchild,” he begins harshly and she flinches again.  But he needs to.  “You are not an Escort and you never have been.  You are not worthless.  You are not a nobody.  You are not Valentine’s slave, or my slave or anyone’s.  Do you understand?  You are the Princess Heir of the Fairchild Empire.  You are a strong, beautiful woman whose spirit cannot be crushed.  You are a brilliant painter.  You are intelligent and clever and cunning and hard.    You are all those things and more.  You’ve brought me to my knees, Clary Adele.  You’ve overcome so many of you fears.  You’ve started painting again.  You’ve told me about your past.  You’ve let me help you heal.  You’ve begun to heal from such a traumatic childhood that I will forever hate myself for allowing you to live.  You are my fiancée.  And I love you.  Do you understand me?  I love you with all my heart and mind and body and soul and you will not let a sociopath determine your fate.”

She looks more shocked than anything, but her trembling has lessened and the tears have stopped.  She doesn’t move for a long time, her calculating, terrified gaze watching his face with a harsh scrutiny.  She must have been lied to many, many times before to have developed that level of distrust.  Even he hasn’t become that mistrustful.  Just hateful.  But he doesn’t break eye contact, keeping his hands planted firmly on her shoulders.  After a long, agonizing moment, she finally says,

“I understand.”

He doesn’t like how quiet her voice is but he doesn’t stop her as she crawls forward on the bed and braces her hands on his bent knees.  His breath hitches as she leans forward and brushes her lips against his in the softest possible way.

“I’m going to regret it,” she whispers, her voice suddenly helpless, “but I love you too.”  Her hand comes up to cup his cheek as she tilts her head.  He moans as she deepens the kiss but makes a sound of loss when she pulls back.  She smiles wanly at him before rising from the bed.  He watches silently as she pads over to the dresser and pulls on one of his shirts and a pair of her sweatpants.  He likes how his clothes look on her.

Dressing, he quietly follows her out to the kitchen, where guards stand just inside the doors or his entryway and balcony.  Clary grabs an apple from the kitchen before catching sight of her delivered art supplies.  He smiles as he watches the fear fade from her eyes while she digs through all her bags.  She pulls out a crisp, new, black leather-bound sketchbook and a set of graphite pencils.

Her eyes settle on him with a hungry eye.  Sticking the apple in her mouth, she holds out her hand for him, which of course he takes.  She leads him silently over to the couch, where Sterling and Silver have taken up permanent residence.  He lets her shove him down on to the cushions before he settles across from her.  The soft overhead lights have clicked on, illuminating her sketchbook.

“Stay just like that,” she says, handing him her half-eaten, now forgotten apple.  He takes a bite, watching her in quiet fascination as she utilizes her new toy.  He smiles to himself, happy that she can forget about Valentine and her past for a little bit.  That she still has the will to smile at him, even with all he represents to her.

Jonathan is content to sit for the few hours Clary takes to go through about six sheets of sketch paper, filling them all, but she won’t let him see with what.  He munches on her apple as she does so, and she doesn’t seem to mind that when she reaches absently for it, she only finds his hand.

“Alright, flower,” Jonathan says after three hours have passed.  “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired and would like to sleep.  Can I expect company?”

Clary looks up, her messy black hair in a knot that she’d made a half hour ago.  She looks almost startled and glances at the clock, surprise passing over her features.  He smiles.  She slowly closes her sketchbook and sets it down; it takes a while for her to wordlessly nod.

Jonathan doesn’t waste any time sweeping her up in his sorely vacant arms, satisfied when her warmth rolls through his body as he carries her back to their room.  Closing the door behind them, he leans forward and finds her lips.

She makes this adorable little squeak, hands tightening around his neck, but eventually, she leans into him.  He knows, as her hands tighten further, nearly clinging to him, she’s trying to drown out the fear that is trying to surface.  He happily obliges to being her ocean.

He lays her gently down on the bed, tugging down the covers then back up so they’re cloaked in silk.  Never leaving her lips, he slides his fingers beneath her shirt, scraping his fingertips along her skin until he elicits goosebumps. 

She moans quietly, body languidly arching up into him, but her exhaustion betrays her.  He uses his hands on her hips to push her gently back down.

“I know you’re tired, little flower,” he murmurs.  “I just want you to lay there and let me please you.  Give yourself to me and I’ll keep you safe.  Just relax,” he breathes in her ear, blowing gently across her hot skin.  She shudders.  She hasn’t said a word but he can practically hear the fear coursing through her.  He wants to rip the fear out of her and wash her in pleasure, drown out everything except him, he wants to be the very air she breathes.

Her only reply is a soft moan and her back arching into him again, pressing her breasts against his chest.  Her nipples are already hard peaks, rubbing against his chest through her shirt as his mouth moves lower to her throat.  He nibbles the hollow of her throat, nipping at her sensitive flesh, her nipples pebbling against him.  He shoves her shirt up so he can connect his mouth with her pert nipple.  She moans.

While his mouth worships her, his hands run down her hips, tugging down her pants until they’re lost in between the sheets and she’s bare to him.  His hands slide his own shorts down before slipping in between her thighs and gently spreading them.  His hands rest on her bare inner knees, keeping her legs pinned open to his marauding touch.

I still can’t believe I found you, he thinks as his scorching mouth blazes a path from her sensitive, hot nipple, where’d he’d just been lavishing attention, to her stomach and her oh, so interesting naval.  She gasps as he dips his super-heated tongue into her naval and he purrs in satisfaction as her hands find their way into his hair.  He moves to her hip, nipping her and leaving a deliberate mark over her ovary.  It is a nice shade of strawberry and he gives it one long, heated lick before nuzzling her thatch of crimson curls between her thighs with his chin.  

He looks up her body, at the look of ecstasy written on her delicate features.  It isn’t enough for him though, he has to have more.  He wants all of her and he is going to take all of her.  Her skin is so soft, heated, welcoming his touch before she flinches away, no matter how hard she tries to stand her ground.  She was a broken spirit when he found her, rescued her.  But now she is an open flame and so fun to play with, even burn himself upon. 

But one mention, one thought of Valentine has her shut in on herself; his pause lost him some of the brightness.  He can see her shutting down, still giving of herself but cut off, like before, when her heart wasn’t in it and she was just an Escort forced to share her body.  The heat of the moment is gone now, he’d taken too long admiring her body, he’d let the drowning pleasure drain away and she now lay rigid, hands curled tightly in his hair as though to ward him away from his precious treasure, whose heat he can feel on his neck.

He sighs, moving back up her body to find silent tears tracked over her temples, her eyes squeezed shut in fear.  He leans down, pressing a tender kiss to her cheek, removing her hands from his locks and threading his fingers through hers.

“Pélara, beloved, don’t withdraw,” he whispers in her ear.  “I want you here, with me.  I want to see your beautiful blue eyes and hear your musical laughter.  You’re not an Escort, you’re a princess of this realm and you’re mine.  Nothing and no one harms what is mine.”

Clary only shakes her head, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks.  She’s only ever cried a few times, when he took her innocence, when she confessed what Valentine had done to her and when she’d found out Valentine had come back.  He knows she is a strong woman, not prone to crying and he loathes to think that bringing her here caused her so much pain.

“My heart, Valentine will not touch you, I will promise you that but if you withdraw from me, whatever his intentions, Valentine has already won.  He’s already taken you from me.  I cannot bear the thought.  I’m here for you and I want you to run to me when you’re in pain and let me soothe it, not from me and hide it,” he says, his voice holding hypnotic quality, drawing his scared little princess to him.

Clary’s reflective blue eyes look up at him as he draws back, looking up at him with such sorrow and fear, his heart twists and is nearly wrenched from his chest.  He smiles gently down at her, cupping her face in his palms.

“Where are you?” he asks quietly, brushing away the tears.

“Your bedroom,” she replies, her voice a timid squeak.

“Our bedroom,” he corrects.  “And who’s with you?”

“You.”

“No one else?” the prince questions, seeing the confusion across her face.

She slowly shakes her head, as though afraid she will be wrong.  He laughs softly, bending down to pull her bottom lip from between her teeth, where she’s been nibbling on it, with his mouth.  If it is anyone’s job to nibble on her lip, it is his.  He draws at her mouth until she opens to him, responding with weak energy, still frightened.  He sighs.

“That’s right.  It’s only you and me, and I intend to take advantage of that.  Don’t let that old, cruel tyrant of a man impede on your thoughts when you’re with me, or any other time.  I don’t like seeing your distress and I will not have Valentine cause such pain when he has not even spoken to you since you were liberated.”  There is a small reprimand in his voice that he cannot keep hidden and he sees Clary flinch away from it.

“He’s come back to punish me,” Clary whispers, her voice terrified and trembling.  Her body beneath his hands begins to shake slightly.  “I haven’t been following rules.  All the rules he told me, I’ve broken them all.  Even if I do live with you now, I can’t just dismiss six years of strict rules being brutally burned into my head.”

“You were never truly under his rule beloved.  You were always mine, always your kingdom’s.  He stepped down from the throne and gave up power.  He lost any say over your actions when he decided to give up being king, and my father.  You’ve secluded yourself in your own beautiful mind because I let him take you away, because you were protecting yourself but I’m breaking through your walls, aren’t I little flower?  You let me in before, you let me love you, and pamper you, let me touch you.  Let me in now, I made a promise never to hurt you a long time ago and I intend to keep that promise.”

He leans down to take possession of her mouth, drawing at her slightly parted lips while his tongue explores her already scorching mouth.  After a moment, she hesitantly laces her fingers around the back of his neck, not daring to pull on him, but begins pushing back with her lips.  His hands slip under her back, down to her bottom and cups her, bringing her closer to him as he rolls over, bringing her on top of him.

He looks up at her shocked expression, smiling a little.  He knows she is tired and that he’d told her to relax, but he doesn’t want to lose her, doesn’t want her withdrawing back into herself and this is the only way at the moment he knows to draw her out.  Being the domineering male he is, he doesn’t typically like his women over top of him, but Clary is an exception.  She is his woman, and there is nothing he won’t let his woman do, except endanger herself.

“Don’t withdraw,” he whispers, running his hands down her chest, over her warm breasts, now once against covered in fabric.  “Come out and pleasure yourself.  I’m not going to and you are clearly wanting.”  He flicks her nipples to spark and stoke that beautiful heat sitting on his erection before tucking his hands behind his head and watching her astounded expression.  “Show me all of your supposed skills you learned.”  Now he is teasing her.

He sees that spark he’s been searching for in her eyes, an answer to a challenge, a sultry look taking over as she begins to move her hips.  He gasps as soon as she moves, sinking onto him, regretting giving her control as her hips circle him, drawing up and down, clenching with her feminine muscles until his body turned to mush.  She braces her hands on his stomach, pressing down as she rides him.

He lets out a low groan, his head going back and his hands immediately grasping her hips, wanting her to stop, wanting her to go on forever.  The sheer pleasure of her movement is bordering on pain and he can barely stand it.

            He can’t help it as his hips buck up, bouncing her and her breasts sway beneath the cotton.  He watches with absolute rapture as she moves, graceful, flowing, beautiful.  He wants to take control, wants so badly to pin her down on the bed and drive into her at breakneck pace, her slow, melodious rhythm a torture, but he doesn’t want to lose what has to be the pure essence of ecstasy.

            Her flaming hair falls around her in a frizzy mass, utterly wild, reflecting the untamed mania flashing in her blue eyes, a mix of ecstasy, fear, lust and not quite love… trust.  Despite her earlier words.  He doesn’t blame her for being wary.  He smiles, even as she grips him, pulling a moan from his throat.  He’s gained her trust.

Her fingers curl on his flat stomach, near the center of his body and his thatch of snowy curls.  His hands slide up her body, barely able to contain himself as he drags her down from her imperious perch atop him and kisses her blind, her body still spearing itself on him.  She lets out a soft whimper at his rough thrust into her, his body trying wildly to take control, demanding he pin her down and take her but she needs the freedom right now.  She’s lived in a cage for most of her life, she needs this freedom and control; and he respects her that she didn’t always submit to him, that she played back, she is his equal.

His hands cup her bottom, pressing her down onto him, around him.  He loves the silky smooth of her skin, the softness of her breasts pressed against his chest, the warmth of her body as she rides him hard and he pushes back, drawing every possible moan, whimper and plea he can from his position beneath her.

She presses her face into his neck as she slowly slides over his shaft, her open mouth scorching a hole into his skin.  His hands wrap around the backs of her thighs, spreading them farther as he braces his feet on the bed to drive deeper into her.  She screams then, a delicious, high pitched scream, muffled in his shoulder.  Immediately there is a harsh knock at the door.

“Your Highnesses?  Are you alright?”

He hears Clary’s muffled, breathless laughter as he calls out.  “Fine, go back to your post.”

Even as Clary continues to move over him, making his voice rough and hoarse, she is laughing softly.  His hands tighten on her bottom in reprimand but soon, his own breathless laugh is echoing in her ear.  Their soft laughter is broken only when Clary climaxes, falling over the edge and dragging him with her.  His release is hot as hers, leaving him slick and burning.

She collapses then, goes completely boneless over him so her small body is cushioned by his.  He strokes her wild hair, pulling it over one shoulder and her shirt down, baring the other so he can kiss it, licking and nibbling at the skin until she shudders with aftershocks.  She licks his throat, drawing at his skin in return, her fingers digging into his back.  He groans, slowly pushing his body up into hers.  She releases a shocked little gasp before it turns into a soft moan.

It is only a few minutes later that he realizes Clary has fallen asleep, his body still buried deep inside hers, her hands wrapped around his neck and her breasts pressed against his chest.  He smiles, utterly content to just go to sleep like this.  He gathers the covers over their bodies, slowly easing out of her but keeping her cushioned on top of him.  His fingers bury deep through her deep crimson hair.

He rubs his thumbs over her hair, wishing he could go out and track Valentine down right now.  Track him and run him through, that would solve all of Clary’s and his problems, not to mention the queen’s and king’s.  His father’s reappearance has stirred unrest with the rest of the countries and their ambassadors.  They don’t know what the return of not only the Princess Heir but the former king will mean for their country.  Of course, the ones with alliances to the Fairchild Empire and Idris will remain loyal and provide aid if needed but one has to look forward to trading falls and the slim possibility that Valentine might possibly retake the throne.

Clary sighs and rubs her cheek along his chest, much like a cat, stretching before settling back down into sleep.  Valentine retaking the throne could mean changing loyalties and making enemies because the Fairchild Empire has declared Valentine an enemy to the Empire.  It would mean Idris and the Fairchild Empire at war, especially if he does anything to harm Clary.  A stab of fear plunges into his stomach.  If Valentine retakes the throne, that will put him and Clary on opposing sides.

His hold on her tightens at the thought and she begins to squirm in her sleep, uncomfortable with his fervor.  He loosens it immediately, his fingers still twitching at the thought of him and Clary being enemies.  The queen surely won’t allow Clary and him to stay in one place together, certainly not here in Idris, him being Heir and son to the man who kidnapped her daughter.  He sighs, his resolve to kill his father before he causes any mayhem hardening as he tries to sleep.

In the end, he barely gets any sleep, thoughts of his father swamping him with worry and hatred.  His only consolation: Clary’s small, smooth, warm body on his.  By the time Clary wakes up, it is well past breakfast but he’d had food brought up anyway, knowing that she wouldn’t wake up anytime soon after the news in town, her breakdown and the taxing love making.  He’d ordered it from the glass panel in the wall, his arm long enough that his body barely jostled Clary.

She wakes up with her nose and mouth pressed against his neck, her tongue brushing his skin as she wets her lips before slowly rising, her hands on his chest.  Her gaze is very disoriented, very blue.  Her hair falls over one shoulder, making her look like an angel to him as she gazes around the darkened room then down at him.  Her pale body blushed a bright pink, her eyes widening as she ducks her head, remembering what they had done, what she’d done.

He smirks, grabbing her chin and claiming her lips, stealing her breath for a heartbeat before letting go; she is even pinker than before.

“I do love the shade of pink you turn when you blush, all over,” he says lowly, eyes traveling down her body, locking on the junction of her legs for a moment before traveling back to her face.  The blush deepens at his comment.  He chuckled.  “Who knew you were so shy?”

He leans up and nips her ear, braced on his elbows, her thighs straddling his torso.  She shudders, the mild heat pressed against his stomach coming to an inferno.

“Stop,” she moans as one hand slipping down between her legs.  “I don’t think I can stand anymore after what you did to me.”

“If anyone should be protesting, it should be me,” he replies.  “You’re the one who rode me hard all last night.”  Despite his words, he continued licking her neck, nipping occasionally as his hand slips between them and his fingers slide over her wet heat.  She lets out a quiet, moaning gasp as his fingers push into her.

“By the Angel,” she moans.  “Please, stop.  Don’t stop.”

Her eyes have closed, her head tilted back to give Jonathan better access as she rides his hand, rubbing her hips against his fingers.  He can’t help but notice the strawberry mark he’d left on her breast as he strips her shirt, a mark claiming her as his and no one else’s, as his mouth moves down to her chest.  He takes her nipple between his teeth, tugging gently.  He sits up all the way, settling Clary on his lap, while his mouth continues laving her breast.

His other hand flattens on the small of her back, arching her forward and thrusting her breasts toward him invitingly.  Her arms slide around his neck, hands cupping his head to her in spite of all her quite, breathy pleas.  He doesn’t stop rubbing his fingers inside her wet channel until she climaxes and he is met with liquid heat.  Her body trembles, weak and spent even if she did just wake up.

Clary still seated on his lap, he withdraws his fingers, swinging his legs off the bed.  Before he stands, his strips his own shirt.  He urges her to wrap her legs around his waist.  Kissing his way up her chest, he takes possession of her mouth as he stands, arms braced beneath her silky bottom.  She returns his kiss with equal fervor, hands tangling in his hair as he walks over to the hidden door to the bathroom.

He’d never revealed it to Clary earlier, to give her a sense of security, to use her bedroom as well as the bathroom as somewhere she could hide away and calm down if needed, but he’d never not been able to get in, just in case something happened.  Still consumed in Clary’s hot mouth, he places his palm against the panel and it slides away, revealing the bathroom.  The panel slides closed behind them and he presses on the glass panel beside the shower, turning on the scalding hot water before stepping in with Clary still wrapped around his body.

In the shower, he presses her back up against the tiled wall, water falling over them, making their already heated bodies slick and burning.  His kiss becomes more voracious, drawing at her lips, their tongues dancing, demanding more and more from her.  He can barely breathe, hands sliding greedily over her body as her legs tighten around his waist, pressing her core against his stomach.  One hand wrapped around her back, he pins one of her hands to the wall, fingers twined in hers and squeezing the faster he kisses her.

She is consuming him even if he is the one in control.  She is so brave and beautiful and all his.  He hates that anyone had harmed her, had dared to scare her to the point that the mere mention of their name made her withdraw in fear.  But he will never let anything happen to her anymore, never let anything touch her and he’ll always be there to comfort her and love her and show her that she is so much more than Valentine made her think she is.

Steam envelops their bodies as he presses her harder against the tile wall, hand moving down between her legs to stroke her, strike a match and set her on fire.  She pulls back from the kiss, screaming with pleasure as he thrusts into her.  He dips his head to her shoulder, biting and licking, aggravating and soothing with his teeth and tongue as he sets a harsh, fast pace, hips wildly grinding against hers.

She feels like velvet, clenching around him, his own personal haven.  Her tight channel slowly adjusts to his size, gladly taking him in as he drives into her over and over again until neither of them can tell where one leaves off and the other starts.  Her nails dig into his back as he pins her hips to the wall.  He claims her lips again, taking her for all she is and giving her all he is.

Their bodies are slick, absolutely no friction so they slide together with ease.  His hand slips along her stomach, stroking her hip.   She whimpers in pleasure as his fingers stroke her, his body thrusting into her. 

“Ahh—Jonathan,” she breathes.  “Please, please.  Harder, faster.”

He has no qualms obliging her as his hips take on a faster rhythm, slamming against Clary’s, causing her to make small little sounds of pleasure-pain. 

“Jonathan, I can’t breathe,” she pants, clinging to him like a lifeline.

He only presses harder, going faster, driving them both so high he feels as though his body will explode.  Finally after what seems like forever beneath the steam and water, his body finally shatters, releasing into hers as she clenches and massages and milks him until there is nothing left.  She’s already had two orgasms and is shuddering uncontrollably in his arms.  He rubs his nose over her neck, her shoulder, brushing his lips over her cheek, chin and lips.

“Can you breathe now?” Jonathan questions, his smile sultry and weak.  He sets her down, gently, his hands circling her hips.

She presses her forehead against his chest, shaking it slowly, panting hard.  She is hanging on him, arms wrapped around his neck.

“Well, let me help you,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss her gently on the lips.

“Mm, I don’t think that helps,” Clary says breathily, reaching out to grab the shampoo.

Jonathan snatches it out of her hands and proceeds to wash her, carefully, thoroughly and meticulously, not missing a single hidden shadow or valley.  Clary gets out first as he finishes cleaning himself.  He finds her out in the kitchen, guards hidden in the shadows of the dim room, eyeing a platter of food he’d ordered.

He slides into the stool beside her.

“You really should eat something, darling, you didn’t eat much yesterday,” he says, pulling his own dish to him and removing the lid.

“I’m sated,” she says quietly, a small smile caressing her lips at her innuendo.

He leans down beside her ear.  “I’m not,” he whispers back.  “But you need to eat something, beloved.  I don’t want you to waste away because my father has shown up in his country.”

She sighs and slowly picks up her fork, eating only a few bites as he finishes his.  He is concerned of course, but if Clary isn’t hungry, he can’t very well force the food down her throat.  He strokes her hair gently when he sees the haunted look in her eyes.

She doesn’t speak very much the rest of the evening as they settled down on the couch, Jonathan enveloping her in his arms and blankets.  They watch movies most of the afternoon, content to remain in their rooms as the castle was in discreet lock down.  She murmurs to him of some of the nightmares she’s afraid to have, keeping her from sleep, tired though she may be.  He conceals his anger as she tells him of straps and ties and bedmates and silk and torture.  He soothes them all away with loving words and warm arms. 

She falls asleep, peacefully, against his chest somewhere after lunch—after they’d gone to the balcony and played a few games of chess—still exhausted.  Not wanting to disturb her, he turns off the volume to the television.

By evening, the castle is absolutely quiet, Jonathan restless and unable to sleep, yet again.  The guards change shift once before he contemplates trying to sleep.  But unfortunately, he doesn’t get the chance to put the thought into action when a guard approaches him.

The guard keeps his voice low, aware that the Princess Heir is sleeping.

“Your Highness, there’s been an assassination attempt, on the queen.”

 

 


	10. Broken Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They do have a chance of living. If someone gets here in time. Such a waste of life. You’re so young.” Clary’s body draws tight in horror. “Pity you don’t have that same chance.”

Clary is still sleeping, utterly motionless against his heated body, completely ignorant to the shocking news his guard had delivered hours ago.  He brushes the hair from her forehead.  He should probably go check on the queen, she’ll be with her husband now, probably being comforted by Lucian in their private quarters.  But the prince stays silent and stationary.  He is satisfied knowing that the queen is still alive and taken care of, content to remain on his luxurious couch with his woman tucked up against him.

Though sit is not all he does; he thinks, thinks on what his father has to gain by assassinating the queen.  What will he have to gain by eliminating the only possible tie he can extort to regain the throne?  Clary hiccups in her sleep, a quick spasm before she moans and rolls over, tucking her nose into his chest.

Jonathan smiles softly, sinking lower on the couch as he pulls her legs across his lap so she is cradled elegantly against his body.  Her skin is soft, a loving welcome to his calloused touch.  How could his father ever have taken her away from his ex-wife, his own son?  What had Jonathan ever done to his father to disappoint him so much that he would ruin his childhood and steal his beloved childhood friend?  Now Jonathan is bound, heart and soul, to Clary, he will not allow some fool of a man to tear his family apart again.  Jocelyn and Lucian are more parents to him than his blood father ever was, making them part of his close circle of people he considers worth his attention and protection. 

He knows his father despised the notion of free will, the dilution of the Royal blood whatsoever.  He’d been a tyrant when he ruled, only swayed by the advice of his second queen, his most beloved.  He attended her more than his own mother before she’d died birthing him, or so he’s heard.  Jonathan knows he holds a subconscious grudge against Jocelyn for being more loved by the king than his mother, but he tries not to hold it against her personally.  Jocelyn is cherished by both Lucian and Valentine, even before Lucian came into the throne.  If Valentine loves one thing it is Jocelyn.  So why attempt to murder her?

If anything, Jonathan assumes Valentine would be trying to regain the affections of Jocelyn, by coercion or force, of course.  Jocelyn would never forgive him for kidnapping her only daughter.  Jonathan questions his father’s motives and plans long into the night, developing theory after theory, Clary as still as death in his arms the entire time.  She must still be exhausted.

The sunlight trickles in from the curtains much later, throwing stripes across Clary’s forehead.  Jonathan dubs it time to put her in bed and check on his step-mother.  He tucks her in, pulling the covers up to her chest, thinking he can get away, only to be drawn back with her short moan of protest.  Clary’s brilliant blue eyes are cracked open, squinting at him, her arm outstretched towards him.

He kneels beside the bed, taking her small, outstretched hand in his.

“It’s too early for you to go Jonathan, stay with me.  The bed’s warm,” she says, brushing her warm hand over his cheek.  He shudders and leans into her touch, tempted to stay behind and take her up on her offer but he knows the queen will be wondering where he is as soon as she’s recovered from shock.

“No, little flower, I need to go check on a few things,” Jonathan says, edging around the queen’s assassination attempt.  He does not want to alarm Clary more than she already is with his father in the country.  “But I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

Before he has the chance to stand up, Clary tugged on his hand, taking his attention back once more before she kissed him.  Immediately, any other thought is tossed out the figurative window in place for Clary’s touch.  The kiss is a slow burning one, but hot all the same.  She moves her lips slowly over his, enticing him to get closer.  He rises from the floor, rising over Clary, his lips still locked to hers.  His tongue slides along her lips and her teeth when she opens her mouth for him.  He swings his leg over her body, pinning her down with the sheets as he kneels over her.

His fingers slide over her skin, exploring the lush bounty that is Clary Fairchild, as his mouth claims hers.  Or maybe it is the other way around, as he is drowning in her scent and the feel of her.  He loves the soft spot over her naval that leads to gently toned muscle as his fingers trail up her stomach to her indulgent mounds.  He loves the curve of her collarbones, the shape of her thighs when they wrap around his ears.  The taste of her when she is falling in the pleasure he gave her.  Loves the small curve of her ass when he cups her bottom and presses her harder against him.

But most of all he loves her laugh, light and joyful when her past isn’t haunting her.  He loves the sweet curve of her smile beneath his lips and when he makes her laugh.  He loves the strength burning strong in her each time she remembers the torment his father put her through.

He loves how, after her horrible childhood, she can still pour herself into art, creating beautiful masterpieces that will soon hang around their suite.  He loves to see her sitting on the balcony, so completely absorbed in the stars she won’t notice him or anything else until she is finished.  He loves watching her eyes as they fly over her sketchbook, the imagination practically overflowing from her eyes onto paper.

He loves that he can provide a safe haven for her from her past and that she feels safe enough to be herself around him.  He holds her fiercely, gladly letting her sweep him away from himself.  Her lips glide over his as she pushes him over on the bed, coming to kneel over him like a slumberous goddess.  For he feels blessed as she smiles hypnotically down at him.  His hands settle over her hips, the queen completely forgotten when she leans down to kiss his neck.

She draws slowly at the skin, assuring her mark to be left on his neck.  Her hands are doing something at his naval that has him groaning as her fingers travel lower and lower still.  He could lay here forever under the care of his little princess.  He moans when her scalding mouth travels over his flat nipple.  One hand of his slides up and into her hair, cupping her head to his chest as she rubs her heat against the center of his body, reminiscent of a sexy cat.

Her hands slide beneath the waistline of his boxers and his breath slams out of his lungs.  Small, delicate fingers wrap around his hardening length, stroking softly, enticing his hips to buck but every time they move, his little princess withdraws.  His hips shift restlessly, frustrated when he went to pull her closer but the second he does, she makes this adorable sound of disapproval before removing her hands and mouth from his aching body.  He groans several times, eliciting those perfect, breathy laughs from Clary.  At least he gets that out of his torture. 

He had no clue how long this torment goes on, Clary dragging him slowly to the edge before pulling him back relentlessly.  His hand winds in her hair as his body writhes in pleasure beneath her skilled hands.  She rises above him before seating herself directly over his rock hard erection.  Both are covered, the torture.

He groans loudly, arching his back to press into her heat, her sweet, hot haven.

“This should be illegal Clary,” he manages to just barely get out.

“Only repaying the favor, your Highness,” she drawls, giving him one long lick up his chest, beneath his shirt.

“You have to do something more,” he complains, hips jerking restlessly but she only presses harder on his erection, his intense pleasure bordering on pain.

“I don’t think I do,” Clary says, her voice silvery and angelic.  His hands tighten on her waist, Jonathan borderline mad as he attempts to roll her over, pin her down and drive into her but Clary shifts, pressing on some point over his ribs and he is left motionless, weak and powerless beneath her.  He growls his disapproval.

She only laughs, high and clear.  “I don’t think so princeling.”  She rises up on her knees, turning before she sits herself on his chest, back facing him as she leans down, pushing his boxers down his thighs.  Fire shoots through his body as he sees her panties pull tight on her bottom, and he all but bursts into flames when her mouth closes around him.

He finds himself groaning as he feels her tongue glide over him.  He can’t help himself as he leans forward, feeling returned to his limbs, and pulls her panties aside to fasten his mouth to her.  His tongue spears deep and he loves the small sound of surprise Clary makes in the back of her throat as she jolts forward but immediately settles back against his mouth with a purr.

Two minutes, two of her orgasms and one of his later, she is panting around him before she withdraws, resting her cheek on his thigh.  Jonathan continues to lick leisurely at her satisfying heat.  She is mewling like a kitten as he laps at her, running his hands down her thighs and up her back.

“Stop,” she moans, shuddering against his body.  His lips quirk against her as he gives her one long, rough lick before kissing her bottom.

“I don’t see why I should, you didn’t listen to me so why should I listen to you?” Jonathan says against her supple skin.  She grazes her teeth disturbingly close to his erection.  He is still painfully aroused, now he’s had time to recover from his first orgasm.  She makes him jump with a few more nips up and down his shaft.

“Because you’re not the only one with access to an instrument of torment, Jonathan,” she breathes his name over him, making him shudder and finally release her, seeing the time.  He throws her off, letting her bounce on the bed with a cry of shock.  He is on her before she can move, capturing her lips in a long, drugging kiss.  She moans before twining her fingers in his ivory curls, tugging his head down and urging him to deepen the kiss.

He obliges for a short while before pulling back, dragging his boxers up reluctantly.  He doesn’t want to leave such a delectable breakfast unfinished but now he is running on a thin line between rudeness and lateness.  He needs to go check on the queen.  Clary’s eyes are glazed with pleasure, watching him with an eerie possession that has him shuddering.  Her legs are open for him in invitation, her panties still shoved away, crimson hair wild and spread around her like a halo, her baggy shirt, his really, gaping and showing off the curve of her breasts as her breath comes in short little gasps; sweat dots her forehead like a glistening tiara.  He practically melts just looking at her, imagining all the things he can do to her, but no, he needs to go check on the queen now.  He needs to piece together why his father attempted to kill her and not Clary.

With great effort he swings his legs off the bed, standing before Clary can get her claws in him again, because he would gladly neglect his royal duties to stay in bed with her all day, minimal prompting required.  He slowly drags on some slacks and changes into a button up dress shirt.  He can’t very well go to the ruling monarchs in boxers and tattered sleep shirt.  He has to look like he’s had sex at least a few hours before, instead of a few minutes.

He comes out of his closet, only to be assaulted.  His princess jumps him, wrapping her arms and legs around him before planting her lips on his.  His arms brace her bottom, hefting her up as she kisses him blind.  Her warm hands cup his cheeks and her nearly naked breasts press against his chest.

“Angel, Clary, you need to stop or I won’t be able to walk,” he mumbles against her mouth, pressing her against the wall.

“I don’t want you to, that means you’ll be able to leave,” she whispers back, holding fiercely onto him as though he is her air and she is suffocating.  He lays her down on the bed, just managing to pry himself from her after a long time of languorous kisses.  He is panting like a dog in the heat of summer.

“Will you never be sated woman?” he asks teasingly, straightening his shirt.

“Never,” Clary whispers before sitting up.  She still looks like a lioness on the hunt for her mate, her wild ebony hair a testament to her mane, but now he sees that little blue flash of fear behind her eyes.  The slight glitch of vulnerability breaking through her emerald depths catches his attention and draws him back to the bed.

She is still trying to remain in her distractingly erotic mood, but she sees on his face that he knows something is wrong.  He remains standing, Clary not seeming to mind having to look up at his towering figure.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, brushing her wild mane from her face before cupping her cheeks.

“I don’t want you to leave me, ever.” Tears are glistening in her eyes now.  “I can’t take another person abandoning me Jonathan.  I wouldn’t survive.”  Her voice has broken down into a quiet whisper.  She seems to have drawn out of the hysteria the mention of Valentine can cause.

“Oh, baby, I’m not ever going to leave the only love of my life.  You’re too important to me to bear losing you again, now that I’ve found you.  I lost you too, you know, I won’t let it happen again, not while I’m still breathing.  I promise,” Jonathan says, sinking onto the bed, wrapping her in his strong arms.  She only huddles close to him, as though against a cold wind.

“I won’t be gone long, okay?  I just need to go check on a few things and then maybe I’ll take you shopping or out for some hot chocolate,” Jonathan consoles as he stands from the bed with one last kiss to her swollen lips.  He really doesn’t want to leave her in her emotionally unstable state but neither does he want to frighten Clary by telling her Valentine got close enough to the queen to attempt an assassination.

 

 

Clary nods, her heart falling as she watches Jonathan walk out of the bedroom, listened to the soft click of the door.  Heaving a quiet, but shaky sigh, she gets to her feet and shuffles to the bathroom through the hidden door Jonathan had revealed last night.  She quietly strips, keeping her mind away from Valentine and entirely on what she’d drawn her prince into this morning.

She’d woken up somewhat while he was carrying her to bed, seen the look on his face as he’d made his way to leave and drawn him back.  The entire endeavor wasn’t to manipulate Jonathan, she only wanted him to stay.  With Valentine in the country, it feels like she is back in New York or Night’s House, being watched all the time and judged on every little movement.  Punished for every misstep.  She shivers and brushes the thoughts of him away, frowning that they had crept into her head despite her effort to distract herself.

Now that her mental break has passed, nearly killing her with all her horrid memories at once, she can sit in the relative quiet of her numb mind.

She leaves the shower for the closet and dresses in a pair of nice jeans and loose fitting shirt that she’d picked out while shopping with Jonathan.  She’d remained in the shower for at least an hour, in an attempt to scrub away the nightmares and doesn’t want to sit in a dark, quiet bedroom.  It brings up too many memories.  So, she wanders out into the living room, noting that the balcony doors are open, letting in a frigid winter breeze.  She frowns and walks over, looking out at the mid-morning sun rising over the Idrian Mountains.  Something warm seeps between her toes and she curls her lip as she looks down.

Crimson red liquid slowly spreads across the balcony as she follows the trail of blood in horror back to the guard lying prone and motionless on the balcony.  The warmth drains from her body.  She has to cover her mouth, backing up slowly as thoughts fly through her head.  Is the guard dead?  Who injured him?  Where are the other guards?  Where are Sterling and Silver?  They were here last night.

She stops dead ten feet from the balcony doors, the blood seeping inside like an arm reaching for her, following her.  A low, in human hiss sounds from a corner but the sound travels, so she can’t pin it.  Valentine, he is here, he is the only one who would do such a thing.  With a grim realization she thought back to the wraith that had shot her.  It is Valentine’s, trying to kill her.  The horrible sickness she’d had, that Jonathan had said was meant to heat her organs with unnatural fever until she’d essentially baked alive, had been Valentine’s.  Jonathan hadn’t told her.  Valentine had used bio-viruses all the time in Night’s House training to manipulate the Escorts or torture them when they weren’t cooperative.  She’d experience a few herself.  Why hadn’t she recognized it?  Why hadn’t Jonathan told her?

Valentine’s trying to kill her, and he is here, him and his wraiths, in this room somewhere, right now with her.  And Valentine is never one for a short, meaningless death.  Many of the Escorts under his brutal hand had died slowly when they’d refused completely to conform, even after torture.  Valentine will know she’s been breaking Escort code, will use that against her in his slow torture of her before he finally puts her out of her misery.

Utterly terrified, she turns and tries to run for the door, starting to scream but her voice is strangled in her throat, held by fear and ingrained obedience as her way is blocked by a familiar, silvery blond figure.  It isn’t hard to see the similarities between Jonathan and his father now as he stands before her.  Same hard green eyes, though Jonathan’s melt into churning dark chocolate when he looks at her.  Same ivory hair that curls when it is humid, same tall, lean build, though Jonathan is lither than his father.  Valentine is immaculately dressed as usual, not a hair out of place except for the three vertical tears in his pant leg, the black stained darker and a single cut across his cheekbone.

Valentine smiles at her—a cruel, cold smile that cuts her skin like a razor blade.

“I wouldn’t scream if I were you Lu, it will only make this worse,” Valentine speaks in his old, fatherly voice, the one he’d used to comfort her in those rare moments he was genuinely healing her.  Not one of his sick tortures or mental manipulations.

Clary closes her mouth, fighting back tears and the urge to crumple to the floor, her old default stance of obedience.  She doesn’t want to bolt back into the suite; she’d only be cornered in a place she has no desire to be near with Valentine.  But her only way out is blocked and the hissing in her ears is grating on her nerves.

“I thought I’d drop by and see how you were acclimating to castle life,” Valentine says, taking a step forward, one that Clary takes back.  She realizes too late that she violated an Escort rule.  Don’t move.  Valentine’s eyebrow goes up.

“Well sir,” Clary mumbles, managing to keep her voice steady.

“And how does your patron like you?  He paid good money for my priceless virgin.”  Now she knows he is playing a game, prodding at her to see how far she will go to maintain an Escort’s façade in the face of the man who harshly punished an Escort for not having good posture.  He knows she is terrified of him, but he puts on the guise of inquiring former caretaker.

“Jonathan likes me very well, sir,” Clary says quietly, well aware of the still warm blood coating the toes of her left foot, leaving bloody footprints from the balcony to the door.

“Jonathan?” Valentine asks, other eyebrow rising as he scrutinizes her with a careful eye.  “That’s how you address your Royal Heir?  Your patron?”

Clary ducks her head.  “That’s what he asked me to call him,” Clary says, beginning to tremble, begging the Angel and anyone who will listen to have Jonathan, anyone, come back soon or a guard walk in and alert security.  She closes her eyes in pain, knowing the rest of the guards stationed around her and Jonathan’s rooms are most likely dead.

“Why haven’t you been following Escort rules, Clary?” Valentine asks, his voice taking on a razor edge to match his smile.  She can’t believe this is the man who’d coddled her like his own daughter even when he was training and tormenting her.  Her body grows tense, still, but she refuses to answer.

“You’ve broken so many; you’re chip was removed early; you’re adrenaline levels spiked troublingly on several occasions; you didn’t allow you’re patron to have you the first night; you spoke out against him many a time; you lied to him out of turn; you even left him in public many times.”

As Valentine reads down his list, Clary grows more frightened, completely terrified, wondering how he could know this.  She knew Valentine would know of her transgressions.  She is back in Night’s House now, under Valentine’s watchful eye.  She knew he would retaliate on her disobedience even though Jonathan had reassured her he wouldn’t.  He is breaking his promises, his deals, even the one he’d had made not thirty minutes ago.  She is alone with Valentine, about to be killed after his torturous scolding.  Jonathan let her down but she still screams for him in her mind, begging him to come find her before it is too late.

“Your patron’s mutts were bothersome,” Valentine comments offhandedly, gesturing towards the kitchen.  “I hope they haven’t been as much trouble for you.”

Clary spins towards the kitchen, only now hearing the soft whining and whimpering of canines.  Oh, no, not Sterling and Silver, she thinks as she rushes over to them, lying in two bloody heaps, very close to each other on the otherwise spotless stone tile.  Sterling has his head over Silver’s neck, as though comforting her as she begins to ease out of the world.

She kneels beside the two dogs, both of them laboring to breathe, each exhalation accompanied by a whine or whimper.  Both dogs struggle to get to their feet when they see Clary but she calms them, easing them back down on the floor.  She hears the last ditch effort of a growl from both dogs as Sterling struggles to curl closer to his sister protectively, as she feels Valentine come to stand over her.

“They do have a chance of living.  If someone gets here in time.  Such a waste of life.  You’re so young.” Clary’s body draws tight in horror.  “Pity you don’t have that same chance.”

With Valentine’s words fading into her head, she feels an all too familiar sting on the back of her neck before everything goes black.


	11. Abasement of a Beloved Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Know that, little butterfly, as I must cut your wings. Safe journey into the next life and patient wait for those who love you.”

Clary wakes to one of the most familiar and most terrifying positions she’s ever been placed in, one that reminds her she is inferior and vulnerable, at the mercy of whatever lord or lady decided to buy her.  Before she was even fully conscious she was hyperventilating, pulling at her arms and legs, moving her hips to assess where she’d been placed.  Silent tears were already leaking from her eyes as she opened them.

The cell was dimly lit, darkness swallowing up the corners, creating a small ring of dingy light made by the single bulb set in the ceiling of stone above her.  The air was humid, almost stifling, adding to the feeling she was suffocating.  Her head ached and pounded at the base of her skull where Valentine had knocked her unconscious.  She couldn’t be here, she couldn’t be back to this.  Jonathan had broken his promise.  She was back in Night’s House, the cellar where Valentine took all his misbehaving Escorts.  But it was too humid.

She looked down at her pale, stripped body, her skin a sickly white color.  She felt the warm, sticky coalescence of blood on the back of her skull, still running in a thin trickle down the back of her neck, trailing down her spine and creating dark red stripes on her skin, like sickening extensions of her crimson hair.  She was naked, her defenses and any protections stripped away, meant to deprive her of her dignity and pride.

Her arms were pulled painfully behind her back, draped over a chair, the decorative knobs on either side of the chair back holding her shoulders directly behind her, making them ache as they threatened to pop out of their sockets.  The position made her breasts thrust forward, exposing them to any abuse or treatment deemed fit by the tormentor.  It was meant to abrade her resistance, cause lasting pain and take away any possible protection she could provide for her chest.

Valentine’s methods, when he wasn’t desensitizing Escorts to touch or pleasure, were meant for punishment and pain without leaving any lasting marks and it terrified her, the genius with which the man implicated his torment.

Her breasts, thrust forward, were bound with a narrow leather belt, wrapped tightly around her chest directly over her nipples, crushing the sensitive spots in the middle of her breasts for so long that it made them ache horribly, a deep throbbing of pain set in her sternum.

A dog collar was wrapped around her neck, tight enough to limit her swallowing and speech but loose enough to not restrict her breathing, Valentine’s preferred setting when dealing with disobedient or troublesome Escorts.  The dog collar was not the glorified, bedazzled collar that Escorts were adorned with in their photo shoots for ads or when patrons were viewing them.  It was the harsh, leather one meant to constrict and bind, limit their speech and degrade them.  When Escorts did muster up the strength and courage to speak it was with great effort and pain.  The collars were meant to shame the Escorts, shame and humiliate them, remind them that they were no more than mere servants, dogs to those who bought them and any else who looked at them.  In the first two years of Escort training, one was required to wear a dog collar like this at all times.

Her stomach was bare, as were her legs and feet but the most mortifying part of the entire position, was the spreader bar, to which her ankles were secured.  Her legs were held open wide, exposing her most vulnerable place to any viewer or, in this case, tormentor.  She tried to close her legs to no avail, nearly popping her kneecaps in the process.  To further expose her, her mass of glossy ebony hair had been tied back in a long ponytail at the crown of her head, the mane of crimson held away, unable to provide any shield at all.  Still looking down in despair at the spreader bar, a cloth suddenly came down over her eyes, blinding her to what little light lay in the chamber and to any attack or torment she would receive.

She knew who was in here with her, who’d blinded her and trussed her up, and she desperately wanted to be false, wanted it to be a bad dream but it was her nightmare made flesh.  She couldn’t even whimper or gasp in fear with the collar bound around her neck.  The thick cloth wrapped around her head not only covered her eyes, but her ears as well, muffling what little sound there was.  She could barely breathe as muffled footsteps rounded the chair in which she sat.

“I had my suspicions of who had bought you Clary,” Valentine’s muffled voice filtered through the fabric surrounding her ears.  “But only after you had already boarded the private jet and were out of the country did I realize that my son truly had found you.”

Valentine’s voice seemed planets away as vicious memories of past times spent in the cellar of the Night’s House slashed at her, making her want to cry out but she couldn’t.  Only tears escaped, soaking the fabric around her eyes.  Her chest hurt, more so than when she’d woken up, her shoulders ached and her throat was closing off with tears.  There was no gradual building of discomfort, or fore playing talk with Valentine.  He liked to throw her into the midst of things and demand she adjust or die, and now, her body was rushing to rapidly adjust to the pain, not ready to surrender yet. 

Her mind though was frozen solid, unable to function.  She wouldn’t survive this torment, even if Valentine did plan on killing her, she wouldn’t be the same person after this torment, this torture.  This torture would change her.  Her old memories, nightmares had been long soothed by Jonathan, and she’d let her defenses and protections down in the face of Jonathan’s comfort and pampering. Now the memories she’d blocked out and endured through her tough street life rose up like angry beasts to eat at her already worn down control, break her weak defenses and torture her softened, pampered mind.  She wasn’t able to think rationally anymore, lost in a haze of past tortures, barely listening to Valentine’s muffled monologue.

“Once I’d confirmed Jonathan had bought you I sent the wraith here to remove your presence in Idris because if I’d let Jonathan bring you back, my years of work and hiding and building my revenge would have been for nothing.  But here you still sit, having caused me to finish the job myself after your miraculous survival of the bullet from the wraith and my bio-virus, sent to boil you alive.  How is it that you survived?”  She heard Valentine chuckle to himself.  “I don’t suppose you can answer that can you?  Bound and trussed up like the disobedient dog you are.”

This time Clary was able to manage a whimper, which tore through her trachea, causing pain and the collar to grow tighter.  Past words shimmered in her mind, scolding words in the tone of a concerned father.  You’re property now Clary, you’re the patron’s pet and nothing more, remember that.  She could hear her heart beating erratically and her mind was in a blank, white uproar.  It wouldn’t work, her mind couldn’t process anything except his words and the sheer terror threatening to consume her. 

He was scolding her again, because she didn’t follow Escort rules but his words were muffled and lost in the fabric between him and her ears.  She’d broken the rules and now she was being punished for it.  Something floated to the front of her mind, words Valentine told her recently.

Pity you don’t have that chance.  Her tears stopped, her body seized and began trembling violently.  He was going to kill her, Valentine was going to kill her.  It hadn’t seemed to sink in fully in the suite or when she’d woken up but it hit her like a sucker punch to her naked gut now.  She began struggling, pulling at her bonds, twisting her body to try and get free.  Her struggles were met with a hard crack across her cheek.  She moaned in pain, leaning to the side of the chair.

“Why?”  She managed to croak out but regretted it as her throat flared up in pain, making her cough.

“Oh yes, I suppose you know the whole story now don’t you?” Valentine continued as though he hadn’t just struck her.  “You’re Jocelyn and Lucian’s daughter, I gave up my throne, lived here for a few years with my son then allegedly stole you and forced you into the Escort business, etcetera, etcetera.  Well, while most of that is true, I did not hand my throne over to Lucian as they would have you believe.  I was over thrown, my ways of ruling were viewed as,” he paused, searching for the right word. “Barbaric.  I only wanted to keep the Royal Bloodline pure and keep my people in line.  There was no crime or suffering when I was king, Clary.  I ruled with an iron fist, yes, but I was fair.  A few years after my son was born, my second wife, my Jocelyn, and Lucian had the uprising, forcing me from the throne and into the dungeon of this castle.

“Jonathan visited me on occasion but never spoke extensively before he stopped visiting altogether.  I found out later he’d been spending all his time with you.  Once I retake my throne, I’d like to get to know my son better but after this, I don’t believe he’ll like me very much.  He’s grown very fond of you hasn’t he?  I can see the appeal Clary.  While you were in my care, you were quite the intelligent girl, just like your mother.  I could never respect a woman I couldn’t have an intellectual conversation with.  I felt all the female Escorts that passed my way, despite their Royal background, were all airheaded and shallow, nothing but toys and trophies but you?  You were a gem within the confines of a coal mine.  Such a pity still, to have to kill you Clary, I love you as a daughter.  I would have kept you to myself too, back in New York, if I hadn’t been determined to carry out my vengeance on Lucian.  I never wanted to hurt my wife as badly as I did, it was more to punish Lucian and make him suffer than cause my Jocelyn pain.”

Something cold and sharp touched her collarbone, digging into her flesh before drawing a thin line of blood that spilled down her chest between her breasts.  She tried to cry out but only succeeded in further mangling her throat.  She dragged air into her lungs at the unseen assault.  She couldn’t see the attacks coming and her body began to tremble even more, her skin becoming itchy as though she could feel Valentine hovering over her skin with his nails, knives and other objects of pain.

“My son was quite the sneak when he found and purchased you, I’d kept news of your sale out of Idrian and Fairchild Empire newlines and telecasts but Jonathan still found you.  Clever boy, he’s halfway to earning the name of Morgenstern, unlike you Clary, had you been my daughter, you would have proven yourself easily.  I’m surprised actually, of Lucian and my wife; they kept Jonathan on as the rightful Heir to the Kingdom, and by extension the Fairchild Empire, seeing as you were missing back then.  They didn’t know if he was like me, or if he would betray them but they kept him in their house, gave him the prided spot of Heir.  When I take back my throne, it will be to my benefit that Jocelyn kept Jonathan as Heir, my blood would have still been in a position of power the entire time I was gone.

“I really would like to keep you Clary, honestly… I might actually be able to use you as leverage against my wife and son to regain the throne.”  He paused, as though mulling this idea over.  Valentine seemed to just be preening, from what words she caught and the even less that she could process.

“No,” the muffled word threaded ice through her veins, her body shaking enough to make her wonder if she would shatter with fear.  “You would be the rightful Heir to the Fairchild Empire as well as second in line for the Idrian throne.  Even if you did marry my son, you would still have a stronger claim to vaster armies and resources than myself.  You’re too much of a wild card my sweet girl.  I’ll make your death painless though, quick and sweet.”

She thought Valentine was more talking to himself than to her when another thin slice was made across one of her ribs.  She jumped, shocked at the unexpected contact.  Tears were pouring from her eyes, soaking the blindfold until her face began to itch

“I suppose before I end you, you should know why, after I took you all those years ago, I left you to the foster system and the streets for a few years.”

She nearly choked at the reminder of her harsh childhood, the horrific years of scraping by and isolation in the homes.  Of the pain and fear drilled into her in the foster system, the suffering and hard work she’d had to go through on the streets just to survive.

“You were by far the most powerful of any of the Royals that had passed through the Escort’s business.”  Another shallow cut was made to her stomach.  “And with the biggest threat to myself, I had to ensure you were more broken and under my control than the rest of them.  So I left you to the foster system, knowing it drained most kids of their spirit within a year or two, to grate your resilience down, instilling hopelessness and fear the longer you were left there.  I hadn’t planned on you living on the streets though, I lost track of you for a year or two before your little Royal head popped up again.  I left you for another year to see how you were faring before I took you back.  I did an evaluation of your will, your strength, your personality before I decided to put you through ruthless, relentless training and conditioning to break you down even further.  I used a theory developed in the early twenty first century called learned helplessness.

“I usually restrained you and introduced unpleasant stimuli to you, punishing you if you tried to escape.  This rerouted synapse in your mind to make you unable to avoid contact with it, so that you would be forced to endure the stimuli, no matter how unpleasant, which was useful when you were to be exposed to unpleasant sex from essential strangers.”

Clary winced as she remembered the first year of training, when she wore a dog collar.  All the poking and prodding, the rubbing and stimulation.  Through it all, she was tethered to a cold table, her arms and legs spread as she was stripped down to the skin.  She moaned in horror at the torture she’d had to endure.

“Clearly, that learned helplessness did not stick with you Clary but I can see that you still fear me and will obey me.  You’ve stopped struggling, you’ve resorted to your rightful, submissive and open position like a good little girl.  Even after your many months in the company of my son and your family, the fear you have of me still drives you, but you’ve been built up again by the coddling of my son.  He’s restored some of your will and managed to wipe away a thin layer of the grime covering and suffocating your personality, which now makes you a threat. 

“If only you’d remained that submissive little woman that I’d made you, if you followed Escort rules and continued to be subservient to my son, you would have been able to live under my roof happily with my son.  But, like my wife, you turned into an extraordinarily resilient woman, once someone prompted you and gave you a reason to be so.  However your likeness to your mother will be your death.”

Clary was lost in hell, unable to remember how many nightmares she’d had of the pleasant and unpleasant tortures she’d been put through.  Valentine had had strangers inflict pleasure on her and familiars inflict pain, so she withdrew from any of her friends and never establish lasting relationships with anyone except Isabelle and Alec.  It had been the source of her trust issues and what caused her to still be slightly wary of Jonathan; what caused her pain to double when she knew that Jonathan had broken his promise.  He’d betrayed her.

She shook her head, even as another slash was made across her thigh.  No, she told herself, Jonathan took care of her, he loved her and had used more than half his life to track her down and save her even after her own mother had given up.  He didn’t betray her, but then why did she still hurt? 

“When you were young, still living in the palace, and I in the dungeon, I’d managed to bribe a guard with power and money and all the glory one could obtain being in favor of a king, to let me loose.  It was easy enough, being the dead of night, when people are the most vulnerable to get them to do as you will.  They’re tired.” A cut to her shoulder was made, causing her to lean her head away from the cut.  “They’re surrounded by darkness and all the horrors and fantasies it conceals.”  A cut to her chest had her heart beating painfully hard, skin ultrasensitive and her mind flinching from every brush of air, she had no idea where the next attack would come from or how painful it would be.  Each one of different depth in no specific order, giving Clary no real idea of how bad the next blow would be.  “They’re vulnerable to their wildest fantasies, and it was that weakness that allowed me to escape.  Human weakness.

“I stole up to your nursery, using the hidden passages in the castle that even the previous kings were unaware of, and stole you.  Your mother and father had put me in the dungeon and left me to rot for five years, taken my throne, my son and my power, so I thought, why not take something dear to them?  Turn their precious Princess Heir into nothing more than a Royal’s lap dog, a sex slave, and a toy.”

Her head was buzzing, not really aware of any of the words Valentine was saying.  All she could focus on were the memories bombarding her, the torments and the horrors, twisting into vile nightmares.  Some memories were of those she’d been made to forget, memories that could only be recalled if reminded of, like Valentine was doing now.  Sick things could be done to the memory in this day and age, one could be made to forget an experience but not its lasting effects. And with most of her nightmares, Valentine’s trainings, once they’d happened, no one ever spoke of them again, the Escorts were only left with the impressions of obedience and submission. 

She was having trouble breathing as one of her forgotten trainings cropped up in her memory.

Her hands were bound, the rope tethered to the ceiling and pulled tight, lifting her breasts.  It had been meant to prepare her for a patron who believed in the rougher treatment of Escorts.  This type of training was, of course, only taught to older Escorts, given the nature and physical requirements.   She’d thankfully been allowed an open-backed top that covered her breasts but left the expanse of her newly, surgically perfected, back exposed.  They’d brought in two older, male Escorts to deliver the training, both were handsome, a blond and a brunette, and well built, their own torsos exposed as they strode into the room.

Their faces had been grim; angry and sad that they were forced to cause this kind of torment to a young, female Escort, but once Valentine snapped at them, they fell back into line.  One took up a short leather whip, the other took up the place in front of her.  She’d tried to pull at the cuffs binding her, looking up at the much taller Escort with pleading eyes as he’d looked to his companion with anguish before grabbing her trembling chin and pressing his lips to hers.  She had only been a novice in kissing at that point and what that Escort did with his mouth took her breath away, only to have the remainder sucked out of her lungs.

The stinging crack of the whip on her exposed back had been shocking, slightly painful but the Escort hadn’t release her lips.  This kind of torment was endured many a time, always with the same two male Escorts, who’d she’d learned were called Mark and Julian.  She’d been made to forget these exact events so she believed she had never been kissed before, providing a more satisfying experience for the purchasing patron but the skill and effects of the whippings and kissing, learning to associate pain with pleasure, vice versa and acceptance of vulnerability, had stuck with her.

Pulling away from the memory, she was gasping for air as though she were drowning.  She was greeted with three new stings in varying places along her body and Valentine’s voice much clearer now in her ear.

“I wish your were my daughter Clary, such a talented and resilient young lady.  You would have done the name of Morgenstern proud.  Alas, you’re too much of a threat.” 

She heard Valentine circle her, kneeling between her legs.  She tried to cringe away, clenching her feminine muscles as though if she tensed hard enough, she could erect a wall of protection around herself.  His hand caressed her cheek with false adoration, which set her body afire with tension and fear.  She held herself very still, as though a cobra were laying round her neck, with one move she would be bitten and die.

“My son loves you very much Clary, I’ve seen it in his eyes, in his posture.  Like when he took you shopping, before you went to see my wife in that coffee shop, he kept you close to his body, his eyes darting around half the time, warning off anyone who got too close like a territorial leopard while the other half was spent mesmerized by you.  He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

His hand slid down her neck to settle over the hollow of her throat, light but all together menacing, tugging at her collar.  She hated how her legs were forced to stay apart, how open and vulnerable Valentine was able to make her feel.  He had the ability to make her feel worthless, nothing more than a dog, living by the beck and call and strike of its master.  Her breasts ached something horrible that she had to force a moan of pain through her torn throat.  Her shoulders threatened to give way from their places, protesting being held in such a precarious position for so long.

She had to lean her head back as Valentine’s hand traveled up her throat.  Doing so opened up her airways tremendously so she took one long, gasping breath, which was in turn restricted by the leather bound round her chest.  She felt Valentine stand up between her legs, his body, lean and powerful, youthful even—for Valentine was not that old, maybe two decades older than her—looming over her open, feminine, petite one menacingly.

To her complete, horrifying shock, Valentine’s lips met hers in a brief kiss before he pulled away, still retaining position of her chin, just as the Escorts had done when he hands were tied to the ceiling, back exposed to a whip.

“I can see why he likes you to warm his bed as well Clary.”

His voice faded as his hand was removed from her chin, but she kept her head back, frozen in shock, unable to process what had just happened.

“I’m not a cruel man Clary, unlike what your parents and my son would have you believe,” his voice echoed from across the room but it sounded like his voice was lost to an expansive cavern, the sound swallowed up by the stone walls that should have reflected it.  “I only take lives when necessary, and in the quickest, most painless way, of course excusing special cases where torture or some form of manipulation is due.  But you, my sweet girl, deserved none of what this life has dealt you.  The game of life cheated you your hand.  You are a brilliant, beautiful, strong young woman that would have thrived in any other life but this one.  But against all odds and my beliefs, you made it still, back to your family, only to be ripped away again by cruel fate.  I don’t wish to do this, but if I do not, you would become too much of a risk to me and my throne, even married to my son.  Before your life—that would have been long and prosperous in another time—is cut short, I only wish for you to know one thing Clary.”

He’d come back, close to her know, standing behind her and caressing her blood-soaked hair.

“You are loved, dear one, by everyone who’s ever laid eyes on you.”

He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her upturned forehead, even as she felt the cold steel of blade against her throat.

“Know that, little butterfly, as I must cut your wings.  Safe journey into the next life and patient wait for those who love you.”

She didn’t realize tears were streaming down her face at Valentine’s beautifully sick words.  He was reminding her that he was taking love from her, as well as her dignity and her life.  He was robbing her of a life that she would have loved, if only he hadn’t been in it.  She was sobbing quietly through the restrictions of the dog collar, one of Valentine’s hands caressing her cheek while the other, as though in slow motion, began to draw a red smile from ear to ear.

She still couldn’t see anything as the first prick of the blade on her throat began to draw the curtain on her life.  She closed her eyes beneath the cloth, not willing to accept death but powerless to stop it.  Her tears only washing the red life’s blood down her throat, diluting it, with the salty water falling from her cheeks.  She thought one last time of the family she’d foolishly avoided, scared they wouldn’t accept her, that she wouldn’t measure up to the standards they’d built in their minds of her.  She wished she’d spent more time with her mother, her father, her beloved.

 _I love you all_.  She thought before blinding light greeted her with a bright flash…

 


	12. Sealing of Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I love you too.”

Only, it wasn’t the all-embracing light of the afterlife that she saw, or the harmonic songs of angels allegedly said to meet one at the gates to the afterlife.  It was the clang of a metal door, distant and echoing, the light from outside spilling in to pierce through the dimly lit room and her blindfold harsh and unforgiving.  The shouts of a familiar man and the rush of many pairs of boots.  The sickening crunch of bone behind her as two people made contact in a violent explosion.  Her ears were ringing, her body trembling and frozen.  Her skin was ice cold and she hadn’t moved, her head tilted back, legs spread, arms bound, throat constricted, eyes blinded, ears deafened.

The clatter was over as quickly as it started, but Clary’s mind was blank, a painfully white sheet as she felt the leather cuffs binding her ankles undone, the rope tying her wrists cut along with the leather belt around her breasts, the collar around her throat and finally the cloth over her eyes.  She was lifted by gentle hands from the chair, drawn into the warmth of a body, enveloped in heat.

She was shaking and in shock as she registered Jonathan wrapping his thick, long, fur-lined coat around her, drawing her into his arms as he watched palace guards pour into the small cellar.  She numbly saw Valentine, a bloody, broken heap on the ground, being cuffed and dragged from the cellar, Jonathan watching with blazing, black hatred in his eyes.

Though when she saw those eyes turn on her, they melted from green fire into liquid dark chocolate, poring over her with loving worry and care.  Clary couldn’t move, her arms had automatically come around to hug her body before Jonathan had draped and closed the coat around her.  Her arms had not moved from that position.  Jonathan didn’t say a word as he swept her from the ground, cradling her small shaking form in his arms.

Everything blurred as she was brought up a pair of stairs into blinding light, blinding after what had been lighting the cellar.  She knew she was shaking, in shock and on the verge of tears.  She shook herself, mentally, telling herself to sort through her thoughts in an organized profession.  Start at the beginning of Valentine’s monologue.  What had he says?  Clary closed her eyes. Searching her chaotic yet empty head was proving difficult.

Her purchase, he told her about how Jonathan found her and spirited her away.  Then, then it was Valentine chastising her, telling her she should’ve followed Escort rules.  Scaring her, putting her back in her place where she belonged.  Her mind went back to what it knew, what it was brought up in and that was obedience.  Who was she to go against Escort rules?  She’d broken a number of them over the past few months, all the while knowing she would be punished.  That was her punishment.  He would have finished her off.

Jonathan, he—he lied to her, said his father lived in the castle, not that he was prisoner.  He lied to her.  Not that it mattered to an Escort, but to the woman she’d become over the past few months, the betrayal felt like cold water thrown over her face on a hot summer’s day.  Then Valentine was saying that he was retaking the castle; she would’ve been able to marry Jonathan and live in peace with her family if only she’d remained a docile little girl.

But she was never a docile girl, even through all the torture, her spirit had remained the fiery flame, dancing through her body and showing in her hair.  Valentine had even admired that about her yet that was her downfall.  He’d laid blame and scorn on her, stinging her skin and burning her heart only to lay on a soothing balm of praise and beautiful words.

You are loved, dear one, by everyone who’s ever laid eyes on you… Know that, little butterfly, as I must cut your wings.  Safe journey into the next life and patient wait for those who love you.

Even his death sentence was beautiful.  One of his many talents: the ability to manipulate and sugarcoat while at the same time, he wasn’t really doing anything at all.  He only revealed the true beauty of something one thought ugly and harmful.  She could remember him doing it all the time to her, during her training, at bedtime, when she still thought monsters, real, human monsters, were out to get her, hiding under the bed and coming in through the window.

Her body jerked as feeling seemed to return to her.  She was sitting somewhere, it took her a moment to figure out it was the couch in the prince’s room, the prince himself kneeling between her knees, warm hands cupping her cold cheeks.  She saw the concern on his face, in his beautiful hazel eyes before she jerked away, seeing his father reflected in those beautiful features. 

Her hand drifted to her mouth, where Valentine had kissed her briefly.  Why had he kissed her?  He’d been like a father to her, so what was his purpose in kissing her?  She drew back from the man kneeling before her, hugging the thick jacket, laden with his intoxicating scent, but she couldn’t bear to look at the man himself.   He crawled closer to the couch though, his curly hair peeking into her vision.

“Please talk to me little flower, I need to know you’re okay,” she heard his sweet voice slip into her buzzing mind.

Clary shook her head, drawing her legs into herself. 

She felt his hands cup her cheeks and she shuddered, wanting to pull away, remembering his father’s touch.  “Baby, please.  You’re wellbeing is important to me; let me see what he did to you.”

She didn’t stop him as he began to draw his coat open.  She saw the grimace cross his lips at the sight of the glistening trails of ruby blood, the thin slashes marking her body like cross hatch.  But she did withdraw from him when his fingers brushed over her skin, snatching the lapels of the coat from him and closing them firmly around her.  She stood, backing away.

Jonathan slowly rose from his crouch, watching her with a concerned frown.  Understanding seemed to cross his face after a moment of searching her pale face and throat, focusing particularly on the two red lines encircling her neck like twin choker necklaces.

“Please don’t touch me, not right now,” she whispered in a broken, husky voice.  The voice was all too familiar to her, from all the different times she was subjected to the collar, when her speech and her air were continually cut off.  Before the prince could respond, her mother came bursting in, tears streaking down her face and frantically searching the room until her emerald eyes landed on her.  Jocelyn took a step towards her but Clary yelps and practically jumped behind the prince for protection.  For despite Valentine’s manipulation, she still trusts him the most, even if that trust had been reduced to something so small one needed a microscope to view it.

Clary is shaking her head, holding back tears of her own, muttering to herself.  “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me.  Please don’t touch me.”

She can feel all those hands from training, all those fingers caressing and pulling, fists hitting and palms slapping.  She can hear the crack of skin against skin.  She feels the leather against her back, the silk bound tightly around her wrists and ankles.  She feels like she can’t move, tied down like she always was in Night’s House.

She’s vaguely aware of Jonathan speaking to her mother.  She can’t hear the words, but she doesn’t like the rising tones.  The pain is setting in now, ghost pain as well as aches and sores from Valentine.  Her cuts throb, as well as her bruised breasts and throat.  Her ears hurt too, they were ringing with din, shouts from Valentine, softly spoken apologies from the Escorts forced to hurt and pleasure her.

She tried to take a step back but her legs wouldn’t work, refusing to even support her weight now all her memories and pain were saturating her bones, turning them to jelly.  She crumpled to the ground.  She was shaking, her whole body feeling all the ghosts of fingers and silk and leather.  She didn’t realize she was screaming, covering her ears with the palms of her hands.

“Make it stop!  Make it stop!”

She was kneeling on the floor, tears dripping down her cheeks freely now.  She was lost in a haze of terror and pain and pleasure and nightmare.  The sting of leather whips skipped across her back.  The tug of tight silk pulled at her wrists until she thought her bones might break.  The press of fingers became a digging on her skin, as though the fingers where trying to burrow into her body to rip out her bones.  The brush of fur over her skin…

Fur?  Clary choked on a breath, slammed back into her body at the unfamiliar sensation.  Valentine had never used fur in any of his trainings.  What was the fur that she felt?  She slowly opened her eyes to find herself wrapped in dogs, Silver and Sterling to be exact, white bandages wrapped around their ribcages.  They were alive?  She still couldn’t speak as her senses slowly came back to her.  The prince was seated behind her on the floor, arms wrapped around her, locking her into his lap.

The dogs, though their breathing be labored, were whining softly, sensing her distress and wanting to comfort her.  She found the extra padded dog beds to the side of the couch and knew that is where they must have been resting.  The poor, injured dogs must have dragged themselves over to her.  She took a shaky breath, pushing her nightmares away for the moment as she buried her fingers in their fur.

Jonathan noticed that she’d stopped screaming, so had her mother, who sat in agony on the couch.  Her body was still shaking, pressed against Jonathan’s and she wanted to pull away, take a second to gather herself. 

“Please let me go,” she whispered.

Jonathan only tightened his grip on her.

“Not until you explain what happened so I can actually do something other than feel utterly useless as you suffer.”

Clary whimpered, tugging feebly for a moment at his iron laced arms but she couldn’t make a dent in his strength, not now.  So she gave up her struggle, collapsing back into Jonathan’s strong body.  The dogs snuggled closer and she was aware of her mother hovering on the edge of the couch, desperate to help.  She deflated against her prince, letting him wrap her in warmth and love even if that warmth and love, from her standpoint, seem tainted with black.

“I can’t, princeling, I can’t right now.  Not yet,” she murmured, suddenly tired and still achy.  Her once personal condemnation of his station had turned into an endearment and he knew it.  Knew that she had come to be rather fond of him, loved him even.  He heard the pleading note in her voice, when she resorted to using his pet name. 

“Oh, my little love,” Jonathan whispered, his nose nuzzling in her warm throat, his voice laced with sympathy and weariness.  He gathered her in his arms, lifting her up.  “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

 

 

Jocelyn stood to help but Jonathan shooed her away, wanting some private time with Clary to help her heal.  If Clary wanted her mother and told him, then he’d let her go to her mother but first she needed to be cleaned up.

Jonathan carried her to their bathroom, turning on the tub faucet for the bath to fill with steaming water.  He set her on her feet, slowly easing the coat from her shoulders.  Her beautiful porcelain skin was marred with angry red cuts, red lines like chokers around her throat and bruises forming over her breasts.  He wanted to see her eyes, but they were bent to the floor.  He sighed before stripping himself and turning off the water.  He collected her in his arms again.

He readjusted as a small whimper filtered from her lips.  She tensed visibly as they came closer to the heat of the water.  Her body was frozen like an icicle, ergo he wanted to warm her up as soon as possible.  Her fingers dug into his neck as he lowered them into the water but she didn’t make a sound.  Only pressed her face into his neck, cringing and wincing.  He settled her on the bottom of the tub, in his lap and close to his body.

The silence remained intact as he leaned back against the tub, letting the heat soak into both of them.  She noticeably relaxed after some time but he kept his thoughts to himself until she was ready to talk.  Valentine had practically scared him to death when he’d taken Clary; infuriated him to the point that he’d beaten his father to a bloody pulp when he found them in the very dungeons Valentine had been locked in years previous.  He’d seen Clary bound and constrained to the cold, metal chair, completely naked.  Her feet had been spread so her most private space was exposed and vulnerable.

He could see the bruising in her shoulders at their prolonged position, most likely slowly pulling tendons apart.  A dog collar had been wrapped tightly around her throat almost to the point of strangulation and a thin leather belt had been restraining her breasts.  He didn’t dare open his eyes to see the bruises marring her body yet, letting her lay quietly in his lap, his arm wrapped around her.

She pressed her cheek against his chest, and he could tell she was listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, trying to calm her own.  He didn’t move either, unsure if the anger building in him at his father’s crimes, at the wounds defacing Clary’s fair skin, would make him dangerous.  He feared, in his anger, that he would hurt her more than she already was.  So he remained still, letting the heat soak into her and into him, but he would get her talking before too long.  She had a nasty habit of dwelling on unpleasant thoughts and scaring herself half to death.

After another few minutes of silence, long enough for his anger to dispel somewhat, his arms tightened around Clary, bringing her into his chest.  A gentle breath escaped from her lips in a whimper.

“Shh, little love, I’ll get you cleaned up and you can go to bed if you want,” he murmured against her frigid skin.  He was concerned as her temperature continued to remain cold.  His hands slid over her hips before he grabbed the soaps on the side of the tub.  He soaped up his hands before rubbing them into her muscles, the relaxants mixed into the soaps sinking into her.  He noticed the tension draining from her body, leaking into the water like oil.

He turned her in the water, so her back was to him as he began a slow, tender massage of her entire body.  She moaned softly, throwing her head back against his shoulder as he reached around to cup her breasts.  He kneaded them, squeezing soft flesh in his hands, pressing her back against him.  He was careful of the thin line of bruising wrapping around her breasts and torso as he massaged her, leaning down to kiss the red lines around her neck.

She let out a tortured moan as his hands sank lower, over her flat stomach, his hand engulfing the small thatch of dark curls and her core.  She was hot for him, burning as he plunged two fingers inside her, needing the feel of her surrounding him, needing to feel for himself that she was alright.  Inside and out.  Her hand slid around his wrist, gripping tightly as he stroked the inside of her body.

His other arm wrapped her waist in steel, holding her writhing against him.  His lips brushed over the angry red collars circling her throat before moving up to her parted lips.  He listened to the sounds she made as he pushed his fingers in and out of her.  His own body hardened against her curved, firm bottom. 

“Jonathan,” she moaned breathlessly.

“Clary,” he replied, his own voice hoarse and broken.  “I was so scared for you.”

Her reply was a cry of pleasure, arching her back, as his fingers brought her orgasm.  She turned her face into his throat, breathing heavily.  He withdrew his fingers, having done what he wanted and he gathered her to his chest, lifting her from the tub before grabbing a towel and engulfing her small body with the fluff.  She let her head fall against his chest as he dried her off, carrying her to the bed. 

“Do you want clothes?” he asked, settling her on the soft bed.  Hers was a soft nod, one that signaled defeat and exhaustion, and it broke his heart to see his little flame, his love, dampened by what his father had done to her.  His shoulders sank but he stalked to his closet to pull out some of the sweats Clary purchased in town.  He helped her slide them on, ending up cradling her in his lap on the bed to help her get the sweatshirt over her head as soreness and pain set in.

She was shaking by the time he pulled the covers around them, holding her to his chest.  He heard her murmuring indistinctly, clutching his shirt.  He tried to get her to talk to him, futilely of course before he finally had to rock her to sleep, the slow, soothing motion seemingly the only thing that would calm her.  The dogs had come in earlier, while she was murmuring of horrid things that angered him, and had wrapped themselves around each other at the edge of the bed.  He didn’t want to kick them off, seeing as how they were injured as well.  His father hadn’t even spared his dogs.

He continued rocking Clary like a small, frightened child until he knew she was in a deep, undisturbed sleep.  Even then he didn’t let go of her.  He was thinking of his father’s upcoming trial, because they had jailed him after some guards had had to pull Jonathan off of his bloody body.  He’d gone into a mad rage when he barged into the cell, finding Valentine holding a knife to Clary’s throat as she sat, shaking, naked, vulnerable.

He was surprised he hadn’t snapped his father’s neck then and there.  Valentine had harmed his poor little flower, had made her bleed and wilt with horror.  He’d crushed her petals.  At his trial tomorrow, Jonathan was going to be sure to get him the death penalty. The dogs at the foot of his bed, Clary in his lap, he sank down into the bed, placing Clary beside him but wrapping her up in his arms, drawing her legs to him with his before he finally allowed himself to sleep, curled around Clary protectively.  A wolf protecting his mate.

The next morning passed by in a blur; Jonathan had Will called in to do an examination on Clary.  As soon as he tried to get her to undress to see the damage, she screamed bloody murder and ran off into the apartment.  Jonathan searched quietly, Will following behind and opening doors, checking under beds before they finally found her, shaking and crying.  Clary’s blue eyes caught his, she looking so utterly tormented—torn between going to him for comfort or getting on the next plane to Australia.  He finally coaxed her out of the small linen closet he had all but forgotten about in the back of the apartment.  And when he did, she clung to him like cement.  She wrapped her arms around his neck.

He picked her up like a child, her legs wrapping around his waist, and brought her back out to the living room with her face buried in his neck as she shook and shivered, muttering to herself.

“No injuries.  No sickness.  No injuries.  No sickness.”

Her odd chant struck a deep chord within him as he realized that chant would have had to be beaten into her.  His hands slipped into her sweatshirt, on her back but she only screamed and moved further up his body, away from his hands.  He withdrew them, replacing them as braces on her rear.  The next challenge was getting her to cooperate with a physical.

Having Will examine her was an impossible challenge in and of itself, it was like pulling death from a rabid dog.  Clary screamed and shouted, twisting and struggling.  She was a good fighter when it came down to it.  She managed to kick Will in his delicates and nearly crush Jonathan’s instep while he tried to slide her sweatpants off.

“No!  No!” she screamed in mindless fear, not really seeing them.  Jonathan got her feet on the floor while Will worked off her sweatshirt from behind.  Once her clothes were gone, she kept her trembling body and face pressed tight against him as Will examined her back and legs.  Though there wasn’t much damage to be had back there seeing as Clary had been sitting.  She once more screamed bloody murder when he had to turn her around so Will could examine her front, where most of the damage was done.

What finally got her still enough to bandage and examine was when he covered her eyes with his palm, holding her to him with an arm around her hips.  She was shaking and sobbing of course, and it broke Jonathan’s heart, but she allowed herself to be examined, because if she didn’t want to be, he knew she wouldn’t be standing so still.  He had to murmur reassurances to her continuously, pressing soothing kisses along her neck and ear as he told her it was him, not Valentine, she was safe.

“It’s Jonathan,” he soothed, hand curled around her hip.  “It’s your prince.  You’re alright,” he says even as she thrashed at Will’s touch to her collarbone.

He had her head pressed back on his shoulder, hand over her eyes.  He forced her back to arch, pushing out her breasts and stomach so Will could bandage the cuts and rub salve into the bruises so they would heal.  She screamed again, sobbing as Will rubbed salve into her breasts as gently as he could.  Will withdrew a needle from his bag, giving her a sedative more to keep her calm than to suppress pain. Will was concerned that the mental stress she was going through might cause some damage so they put her to sleep, letting her drop like a rock in his arms before he put her to bed.  He was reluctant, almost didn’t leave her, to go to Valentine’s trial but Will said he’d stay and personally watch over Clary.

Jonathan then went to the trial, twitchy, nervous, worried and all together furious as Valentine walked in.  The trial was quick, Jonathan gave damning evidence from Clary’s own lips, from his memories as well as the queen and king, and Valentine, the bloody bruised mess he was, was sentenced to death on the next rise of the sun.  Jonathan practically broke the sound barrier as he raced back to Clary, only to find her sleeping soundly under the watchful eye of Will… and about twenty armed guards.

Will said Clary shouldn’t be awake until tomorrow, after Valentine’s execution.  Jonathan thanked Will and let him leave to go be with his family.  The brave black haired beauty and the shy blue-eyed man.  The visiting ambassador from one of the Asian countries had taken an interest in Will’s nephew, Alec, they’d been seen several times walking in the gardens.  One time a Jocelynd even caught them kissing.  The brave one, Isabelle, had been mischievous in pulling his page, Simon, away from his duties.  Jonathan let it slide though, Simon was always vigilant and he knew he’d been stressing over the baroness’s disappearance since they were young. 

Jonathan spent the rest of the day in bed, either reading to himself or holding Clary.  The guards made him eat and drink on Jocelyn’s orders, who’d stopped by to check on her daughter.  She was appeased to see his midnight haired flower curled up in bed beside him, bandaged, covered and sleeping soundly in his arms.  He made the guards bring in the dogs’ beds to his room, since they would not leave Clary and Jonathan wouldn’t let them sleep on the bed again; they’d curled up contentedly in their beds, right beside his and Clary’s, their injuries seemingly nonexistent now they were with his flower.  She seemed to be a soothing presence for everyone she came in contact with. 

By the time midnight rolled around though, Jonathan was already passed out beside Clary, exhausted from the week’s events.

The following morning, by the time Jonathan woke, Valentine was already dead.  No one had woken him, knowing he needed the sleep and had no desire to leave his love alone in bed.  He was there when her blue eyes fluttered open.  They focused on him intently, searching his face as memories began battering her.  He could see the individual reactions reflected in her eyes.

“Good morning,” he says softly, still holding tightly to her waist, pressing her against his raging body.  He’d woken up like that, swamped last night by erotic dreams, hot mouths and seeking hands.  He knew she could feel it but she made no move to pull away.  She only shifted restlessly in his arms, as though something were bothering her.  It took a moment to realize that there was heat building between her legs, causing her discomfort as the heat increased.  She was conflicted, he knew, over so soon after her traumatization with Valentine she could be aroused by the very man who was an exact carbon copy of him.  But carbon copies could fade and become something different.  He could see in her eyes she was struggling to make the distinction.

He pressed his body ever closer, keeping her wrapped in his strong arms so she couldn’t retreat.  He needed her with a passion, needed the comfort of her body, needed to hear the beautiful cadence of her laugh, to see the brilliant light of her smile.  He wanted to see her happy and safe with him again, not feel like she was prisoner, captive and without control over her own decisions.

Jonathan slipped a knuckle beneath her chin, raising her eyes to meet his before he dropped what little control he had left and took her mouth.  Her response was a breathy gasp before she wrapped her arms around his neck and held him to her.  He was wrong, he thought as soon as her lips touched his.  He’d thought he was in control, he was seducing her and comforting her but he was wrong, the moment she pressed her body against his, he knew she had the power over him.  She could walk all over him like a rug and he’d still love her, love her even more knowing the fact that she would never use him as a rug.  She had him in the palm of her hand; she ruled his life now and he loved it.

“Wait,” she says quietly, putting her fingers between their lips, resting them on his mouth.  He was tempted to nip and lick them as she continued speaking, and that’s what he did.  She shuddered as his teeth scraped over her fingertips but went on.  “You lied to me Jonathan,” she confided in a soft whisper.

He stopped, confused as he pulled back, taking her hand and tangling it with his.  He frowned.  “I don’t understand, flower, what did I lie about?”

She bit her lip, drawing his eyes from hers to her full mouth.  He wanted to kiss her so badly it was a physical ache.

“You told me Valentine was living in the castle when you were young, when he stole me.  You didn’t tell me that he was a prisoner and that my parents had overthrown him,” she says, her voice soft and unsure.  Even without glancing at her blue eyes, he knew they were trained on the sheets, avoiding him.

He slid his hand under her sweatshirt, caressing the hot, soft skin of her bare ribcage, save the few bandages his fingers slid over.  She shuddered.  “Are you angry with me for it, little love?” he asked, unsure.  “I did not want to tell you because it would have made you more afraid of him, of with whom you were forced to spend six years.  It was better for you to think that he was only a former king than a criminal and tyrant.  You would have over thought it and scared yourself to death,” he says, stroking his thumb back and forth over the underside of her breast, he could feel her nipples becoming tight, hard peaks even through the fabric of her sweatshirt.

He felt her exhalation like a breath of fire running over his bare chest.  Where she’d slept in full sweats, he’d only slept in boxers, leaving him mostly naked, all her temptation covered, making for a deliciously erotic treasure hunt.

“That wasn’t your decision to make Jonathan.”  Her eyes went up, meeting his with a hint of fury dancing in them but he could see it was drowned by sorrow and the pain of the past.  “I have the right to know who raised me, who my parents really are.  They deposed a tyrant, but they took over a kingdom.  That makes a big difference in someone’s personality.  It makes a big difference on how I see them.  I lived in lies and deceit for eighteen years, Jonny.  I expected to be greeted with more lies and deceit, the sideways glances all Escorts get from real Royals, knowing they’re just someone’s toy, but you made me fall in love with you.  Gave me a home, gave me my family back and gave me someone to love and to be loved by.  I don’t want to be lied to anymore, no matter how bad the truth.  If we’re going to be together, if you’re going to marry me like you said, I need to be able to trust you to tell me the truth so I can bear it.”

Jonathan’s breath caught.  He hadn’t thought of it like that.  How she would want complete disclosure even if the truth was a horrible, ugly thing.  But she was such a strong woman, such a stubborn woman that he should have known she would want it.  Want to bear it all by herself.  He sighed, pressing his forehead to hers as his hand spanned her back beneath her sweatshirt, careful of the already almost healed wounds on her body.

“You won’t have to bear it alone.  I’m always here for you,” he whispered, lips ghosting over her cheek.  “I’m sorry, little love, I should have thought more about what you would want.  I was only thinking of your health and wellbeing when I told you.  At the time my hold on you was still so fragile, I was terrified you wouldn’t love me or be happy here.  So I told you a lie to help ease your mind.  I apologize and hope you can forgive me.”

He heard her sigh, her resignation melting away in the face of his tenderness.  He smiled against her throat, having moved his lips there.  She wouldn’t be able to resist him, he knew, and his body was raging at him, demanding he pin her down and take her, but he knew that would get him nowhere.  She had to feel in control now, after what had happened, after all her Escort ‘trainings.’  She deserved to feel that way, and most of the time she was in control of him.  He was putty in her hands.  He restrained himself, waiting patiently for her response, only he never got one.  He didn’t mind not getting one.

Clary pushed him back on the bed, tugging the covers up over them so he couldn’t see.  He felt her hands all over his bare body, fingertips leaving trails of fire all over his body, so intensely hot that he moaned, arching his back.  Her fingers found places in the dark that made him pant and moan.  They slipped beneath his boxers, circling his erection in a soft sheath, slowly moving up and down, squeezing, teasing, torturing.  His own hands found her thighs, dragging her up his body until he found her mouth.  He claimed her mouth, staking his territory fiercely as he ran his tongue along the seam of her lips.

She moaned, a beautiful, full sound that echoed in his mind, stamped his heart with her mark even as she guided his hands down to her sweatpants, coaxing him to peel them off.  He did.  She didn’t have any panties on beneath as she peeled his boxers from him, dropping them somewhere in the dark, caught between the sheets, like the two of them.  He didn’t want to leave his dark haven, filled with love and moans and the small little laugh from her as he bit his own lip, wincing as he drew blood.  He cursed.

“So graceful,” Clary teased even as she leaned down to kiss away the blood, licking the small puncture before she deepened the kiss.  He smiled against her lips, laughing right along with her but silenced her laugh as he drove his hips upward, into her tight, waiting sheath.  She let out a cry; he a moan of satisfaction.  The sheets tangled around them, but neither paid heed to them.

His hands slid over satin skin in the dark beneath her sweatshirt, his body stretching hers tightly, wringing cries of pleasure from them both when her muscles clenched around him.  He found her head, cupping the back of her neck, and dragged her mouth to his when it had wandered off down his chest.  He didn’t really pay attention to how it happened but he was on top of her, pinning her arms down to the mattress to torment her, unable to follow his mouth or touch his body as he drove into her.

She was whimpering by the time he caused her third orgasm, bucking helplessly against him, panting, her body slick with sweat.  His nose grazed her breasts, tongue roughly dragging along the undersides, her sweatshirt pushed up to her throat, until she was squirming relentlessly.

“Jonny,” she whined, arching her back, thrusting her breasts upward.  He rather liked her nickname for him, no one had ever really dared to give him a nickname when he had been so cruel and intimidating—he still was cruel and intimidating but less so now he had Clary. 

“What, little flower?” he asked, beginning a slow, luxurious pace, massaging his throbbing erection against the velvet muscles constraining him.

“Let me go,” she begged, tugging her wrists where he had them pinned on the bed.  He smiled wickedly, flattening his tongue before he dragged one rough lick over her right nipple, eliciting a shocked cry from her perfect mouth; the bruises had all but disappeared thanks to Will and his medicines, so Jonathan could be as rough as he pleased.

“And what will you do for me if I do?” he questioned, hips moving in an agonizingly slow rhythm, tormenting them both.

“Anything,” she whispered desperately.

“I knew you’d say that,” he purred, hands slipping off her wrists and she attacked him, pushing him back onto the bed.  She slid her fingers into his, both hands, holding him down; even though he could break the grip, he let himself be pinned.  He liked what she could do when he was restrained. 

He groaned as she circled her hips, adding a little jolt at the end that make his shaft ache as she slid down on him.  She rode him hard and very long.  They probably went long on into the morning but Jonathan couldn’t have cared less.

“I love you,” he heard himself whisper to her.  She paused in her movements, shocked for a moment.  He couldn’t see anything in the dark, couldn’t see her face or read her expression but he felt her then, taut breasts beneath her sweatshirt pressing against his bare chest, the slide of fabric on his sensitized skin torturous, her thighs pressed tightly on the outside of his hips, hands linked with both of his.  Her nose brushed his, lips barely touching his, exchanging bated breaths.

“I love you too,” she whispered.  And that was all he needed.  His last hope of salvation had been all he needed all along.

 

 


	13. A/N

It's been such a long time since I've touched this piece, and I know I didn't put it back in the same condition as I wrote it.  I'm getting a couple comments on name/plot/pronoun inconsistencies, and I thank  _all of you_ so much for doing.  I went ahead and fixed the inconsistencies pointed out to me, so feel free to point out more if you catch them and I'll correct them as quick as possible.

With love,

Aelin Sardothien


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